Missed Connection
by Michika
Summary: Growing collection of I'm not sure what - Exploring the post-Cell Games V/B relationship and how they settle back into life with each other, adjusting for Trunks.
1. Chapter 1

**a/n** September 30, 2011 - Some minor edits; extra spaces to break apart the time, fixed a typo, and change one sentence the kept bothering me when I read it over. I really do need a Beta...

September 27-29, 2011

Missed Connection

"Here!" She tossed a capsule on the tabletop where it rolled, then rocked and finally stopped near the center. The faded teal Formica topper was cheery with its small grey-silver flecks; it was a fitting kitchen table. He has eaten at it nearly every day he has been on this planet since his resurrection, excluding the time he spent in the Chamber training.

"You'll never have it as good as you have it here. Know it or not you really _are_ happy here, with us, with me. When you feel it, the sinking sensation in your gut," she patted a balled up fist to her abdomen. She could have been holding a knife in that very position, pushing the blade in, piercing her tender pale flesh, between the muscles, and through the belly – sacrificial, painful, fatal. Permanent. "I hope that something about it worms its way into your cold dead heart to remind you of this."

He is silent. She is infuriated.

"Go back to the stars. Go back to whatever it is you keep watching for, because it's certainly not here. Find someone else to shelter you, feed you…" She has lost her fire, its fading quickly from her eyes, surrender. "…to love you."

There is nothing more to say, she's had it out, one-sided or not, it was in the open. Met with a deafening silence she turned and left the room.

He can hear her steadily move up the stairs. Trunks, a child, whose previous demeanor rarely strayed from the happy side of the scale was howling for her. However, in the past six weeks, since the end of the Cell Games, and the departure of his older self, he'd been nearly inconsolable. He cried incessantly, and thumped his fists hard enough to cause bruises. He could not be out of his mother's presence without a ki-infused tantrum breaking out under the best of circumstances, unless he was in the presence of his Father.

In the morning Bulma is startled out of bed by the sudden howl from the monitor on her bedside. She sighs, too mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted to be able to process anything beyond the overall ache she feels deep in her bones. Trunks' wails are more piercing then ever, so much so that he seems to be hurting his own ears with his cries. Even without the benefit of a baby monitor she can still hear the frantic pounding from the room next door. Her child is standing, leaning forwards on the edge of his reinforced crib. His face is red as he screams, chubby hands pressed over his sensitive ears while alternating stomping and kicking his feet. Furniture is floating and rattling in the room, the air smells like a pending storm. She rushes to him and pulls him into her arms. The stomping and kicking stop, but the shrieks do not. Bulma catches a solid thump from one of his fists with her collar bone, he is undoubtedly his father's son. He presses his face into the side of her neck and quiets, like a switch he is silent and oddly pacified.

In the kitchen Bulma tries to place him into his seat to begin their morning rituals. Trunks will have none of it and refuses to be parted with his mother. He whimpers when she makes to separate them, resulting in her just giving up for the sake of one less fight. She settles for letting him eat a collection of bananas, a peach, and a plum while sitting on her lap. The young mother immediately compartmentalizes her reaction when upon cleaning off the table she finds no capsule. Perhaps Trunks was never intended to be raised alongside his father after all. Maybe the only difference from timeline to timeline was the reason for Vegeta's absence. She scowled at the unwanted revelation.

The need to work is pressing and into her lab she trots, child astride her hip. She stands over her desk looking at the blinking indicator light of her forgotten mobile. When she attempts to convince Trunks to stand on the desk, to relieve the weight on her hip, chaos erupts. The child grasps his mother's shirt tighter in his fists and kicks his legs up and down, in the preamble of a temper tantrum. The wall of bin organizers of screws nearby begins to click and clatter as the hardware begins to rise up and out of their assigned slots. One small foot catches onto the surface of the old wooden table resulting in a resounding crack. The leg closet to the impact site has collapsed spilling the contents of Bulma's desk into her shins and over the floor in a tsunami of paper.

"Oh Trunks! I'm not going anywhere." She sighs, rubbing the child's back, he presses closer and the whole outburst vanishes inwards. "I wish I understood why you're acting this way." While she moved him into a hug she bitterly agreed that maybe Vegeta had been right, she was coddling him too much. This sudden inexplicable unwillingness to be even slightly separated from her was just another symptom to add to the list of new behaviors her little boy had received from his father. She gave up on the lab and headed back to the house.

It'd been a numbing two weeks. Trunks seemed to have developed some sort of separation anxiety from his mother, and had barely accepted being away from Bulma's hold now that his father had left. It was Grandmother who finally convinced the sobbing child to unlatch himself. She'd came downstairs with one of his father's t-shirts and wrapped the boy in the fabric from behind. He immediately let go from his mother and turned into the shirt expecting to find his father under the thin fabric. His face wrinkled as Grandmother caught the boy and hauled him up into her lap where she turned on a small television nearby. The child's attention was immediately captivated. His father was there on the screen moving gracefully from fighting stance to fighting stance around the room.

The boy brightened and sat forwards, his face relaxed and he began to work his jaw around in earnest. "Go on Bulma, we're ok here." She smiled and bounced her grandson as he happily watched an old security tape from Capsule 4. Even if Bulma had proclaimed upon their return from their annual vacation that the nice young man had left for good, she didn't believe it. Not one word. He just needed more time to finish thinking about whatever had kept him away from his family these past few weeks.

In her lab Bulma paced, and poked at the mess on the floor. With a robotic crane attached to a chain hoist, which moved around the room on tracks on the underside of the exposed overhead beams, she removed the broken desk. In its place she wedged a new metal table, kicking papers and supplies out of the way of its legs. Hours later she'd organized the papers and her scattered supplies; much cleaner then it was before. Some of the anger had returned while she'd sorted through the mess, there was years of drawings and designs on that desk. The earliest dated to the diagram she'd been building when she'd accidentally blown up Radditz's pod. The last were the blueprints for Capsule 4's most recent, and probably final overhaul. It was contained in the capsule she'd tossed to him when she'd confronted him that last day.

Looking at the elegant, clean block letters from his hand next to her near-illegible scrawls made her eyes water. Turning around to look elsewhere was of no help, there were area after area set up for inventions to Vegeta's benefit. Tacked up on a corkboard were samples of his original battle suit; they were surrounded by diagnostic printouts and enlarged images showing the complex weave they sported. Since learning of the Androids there was little else she'd done but work to benefit everyone though Vegeta's strength.

She'd known since he'd returned what'd transpired between him and the elder Trunks. They'd never talked about it, as he'd only felt her worthy of once sentence since he'd returned. He'd wanted Capsule 4 made space worthy and stocked for a long voyage, immediately. Bulma had dragged her heels on the work taking nearly a month to complete the task. Vegeta had blocked her out resolutely, no verbal, or even physical interaction. If Goku's death had cracked her heart, then this was crushing it.

In logical part of her pointed out that her alien lover had always claimed he wanted off her planet of weak simpletons. He'd stated once or twice that his time on Earth was akin to scraping something distasteful off one's boot. Her brain also warned that he'd been plain in his intentions with her at the outset. There had never been any true affirmations of anything between them. Their relationship had been built on nearly nothing at all; lust, opportunity, and availability. Overarching their relationship and keeping them in proximity had been the threat of the last three years. After the culmination and end of it all, she'd just come to expect him in her bed, and at her table. While he appeared at the latter, he never returned to the former, and it was a deep wounding blow. Recognizing that she'd mislaid her trust, and her heart was a desolate experience. Naïve and foolish at some point she'd fallen in love she supposed, and this is what it felt like to have that connection severed forcefully. Bulma had built an entire theoretical future for herself, her son, and that son of a bitch on the idea, which he had never once dissuaded either, that there was something permanent in their arrangement. She felt stupid and childish, ignorant of the obvious, and right now wanted nothing more then to do some busywork. The knowledge that she was just a stop of the side of the highway and a notch in a bed post was too troubling to allow herself to dwell on.

There was a broom in the corner, and the floor did look like it needed a good sweep. The action of moving the tool from side to side helped her stop the build in her emotions. It evened her out, and allowed her to regain control. She wanted a cigarette, but instead remembered Vegeta's need to complain about the smell in the lab. She should really get behind the filing cabinets; it's been awhile since she'd last swept there.

Furiously she pressed her hand to her mouth and willed herself not to cry. This was harder then she'd thought, much harder. Everything reminded her of him, and his abandonment of them. There was nothing she could see, or do that wouldn't trigger a memory of him. In the 4 or 5 years since she'd first laid eyes on him, he'd influenced her. Now he was forever reminding her of his time spent on Earth, she couldn't even look at her own child without some sense of resentment and guilt. Bulma was angry with herself for his departure, feeling dejected that she hadn't been enough of whatever it was he'd needed to _want_ to stay. It stung, and it hurt that much more when all she could see in her own child was his face. Her son looked just like his father in miniature, except for his hair and eyes.

Time was slowing; she'd found a dusty, sticky, crud covered capsule hidden in the mutated dust bunnies. Even filthy her felt pen lettering was easily read.

Capsule No.4 v.4.

"Oh…" The air escaped her lungs.

There was a string, inside him, and deep down he could feel it stretching, thinning, and unwinding. He'd never before had anything but his pride. Nothing he'd loved before had been taken away but, he had never loved before he'd been here. Love, he was discovering was painful in ways he'd never before speculated upon. The experience of love, it was so new and novel, he had little to no comprehension of its boundaries and range of influence. The death of his future son was a violently commanding emotional trigger. It started and peaked with his attack on Cell, and now it still raged quietly in the back of his mind. In the years since he'd been wished back to this tiny backwater planet, he'd stopped talking about the weakness of emotional attachments, and developed a few of his own. The abrupt end to Trunks' life shook the tentative understanding of the interpersonal relationships he had constructed here. He wanted to revert to his old self, to avoid ever having to risk the exquisite unending, pain he'd experienced during the Cell Games. It'd driven him into the madness he'd for so long held off.

After two weeks of staring at the stars from deep within a continent with a hot, dry climate he'd come to realize he had all he answers he could get out here.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: The pagebreaks just don't want to stay where I put them on . Bleh!

November 4, 2011 to February 12, 2012

He is weary. The end of his time on Chikyuu has come, he has fulfilled the purpose; the androids are defeated. He should be departing, returning to his life outside the blue-green mudball. The sky, the tableau of constellations, above does nothing but add to his indecision. After the death of his son the seeds of lunacy are sewn. Now he watches the stars contemplating. From the defeat of Cell onwards to the departure of his future son he has thought of little else then his next move - focusing intently however on the value he should place on his attachments; weighing both sides.

It is heaviest on his shoulders when he watches the stars.

"_Go back to the stars. Go back to whatever it is you keep watching for, because it's certainly not here…"_

)}})*

Bulma sighs, she stands on the balcony in little a knit dress and slippers; the ashy remains of a cigarette hangs between her lips. It's the first one since just after they slept together. The gratification she expected never comes. She shrugs to herself and discards the remains. A part of her hoping her unobserved act of defiance will bring him back to her.

Her heart burns and aches. Her rage has simmered, her inward turned pity abandoned, all Bulma wanted was for him to come home. She wanted to try and convince him to stay, to re-write the unwritten rules of their relationship.

)}})*

It is a bitter moment when once again he realizes it is his pride that has been his downfall. Curled forwards over bent legs one hand rests palm down on his knee, the other holds his face. He broods days longer, until it begins to fester once more. When he stands his belly burns, his chest aches, and his mind is unfocused. There within the tumultuous thoughts form what could loosely be described as an intent. He is going to act out the end so he can move on. He will free himself, return to the old ways, to the stars. Injudiciously he is speeding off towards WST 3338926 K.

The pale yellow dome is near silent under the dark sky. There are heavy clouds overhead and the air smells damp and of decay, changing of the seasons. He stalks through the building silently, it too has its own scent. The back hall smells of garlic, and steamed beets. A clear cake plate and dome rests on the kitchen table, the cake inside is chocolate with thick off-white icing. There is a brief debate over consuming this treat now or later. It takes only a few moments for him to slice and consume the whole desert. The creamy icing is washed down with a glass jar of milk. He has ascended up the stairs to the second floor before he has finished swallowing the last gulp in his mouth.

The house has a sleepy feel in the air, a casual welcoming warmth. The scent of her room makes his stomach clench. Inside she is sprawled on the bed asleep, her arms clutching a pillow tightly. He squats down to level her face with hers. He watches her carefully; the intent he'd developed on his sojurn is being persuaded to consider other paths.

The rich cake in his belly reminds him of the opulence afforded here. The way his palms slide easily on the texture of the sheets showcases a lack of want. The warmth of the room, the soft scent coming off the woman, and the silence throughout the house ends the vicious thought behind the intent. He would be no further ahead, but further behind, should he have acted upon it. Vegeta welcomes the shower's heat.

Dressed in clean clothes he trudges to the open side of the bed. The act of lying down to sleep still feels unsettling to him. Sitting upright, and disciplining his mind into a meditative state, which allowed his body to rejuvinate still felt like the norm. To be in clean clothes, on bedding of this quality surrounded with nothing but comforts began to lull his exhausted self into unconsciousness.

Bulma woke with a steady warm puff on her temple. It was blissful to awake on her own time, she was so comfortable, and had an immediate sense of sedate pleasure. She slept and woke a handful of times more until morning. Pulling out from under the warm comforter the woman smiled. On the other side of the bed, partially covered, was Vegeta. She felt a twinge at his appearance; a ¾ length pair of grey sweats and a long sleeve black t-shirt made his olive complextion stand out. The bright linens only added to the contrast. Carefully she tugged the comforter over him and left to use the washroom, hopeful that he has returned to stay.

The woman in the mirror questions what is happening here. The man in her bed is inexplicable. They've had little contact for some time now, and it still stung. What to do? A glance outside tells her to crawl right back into that warm bed and take it for what she could get. The thick grey clouds only made the chill in the air more apparent. Vegeta hadn't moved. Sleep came quickly to her once she'd settled back into her warm spot.

"Bulma, dea…oh!" The door clicked, presumably closed.

Bulma forced herself to open her eyes, she needed to see what her mother had wanted. Vegeta was only inches from her face. They were both laying lengthwise on the mattress, he had one arm bent under his head as a pillow and the other thrown across her body, their legs were twisted together. She didn't know how to interpret this. Her heart wanted it to be a legitimate overture to something permanent, and lasting. She tries to carefully memorize this feeling.

Vegeta had never been an outwardly affectionate man since he'd come to stay with her. His edges were never as much rough as they were abrupt. In her own way Bulma had seen a softening in him, she thought of it more as the results of the inward creeping humanity he was constantly being exposed to. It was like a calming period for him when he'd left into space to find Goku. On his return he'd further lowered his perpetually raised hackles, and eventually Bulma got to glimpse the quiet, prideful and egotistical plotter behind the battle persona, the lonely one. She snuck into his life between meals and training sessions. Then she'd fallen pregnant with Trunks, the Androids arrived, then Cell, and finally Goku's death was the freshest blow. It crossed her mind about how much else she would see if he would stay.

)}})*

There was rain hitting the window when he awoke. Bulma was pressed up under his chin, her face pressed into his collarbone, one leg between his, and the other hooked over his thigh. He felt tired, but less weary; both feelings were shoved aside as he maneuvered his way from the woman's clutches. It'd been a little over two and a half years since he'd laid in bed with this woman.

He fished out a pair of slippers for his feet before leaving the room, surprised to find a pair for him beneath the bedframe. The chill in the air was only intensified as he arrived in the kitchen. He set the kettle on and leaned back into the counter closing his eyes with his arms crossed over his chest. The quiet of the morning is appealing to his mood.

Mrs. Briefs came into the room, the bottoms of her slippers tapping on the floor. Infant Trunks grunts and wiggles in Grandma's arms. His face is red, and wet, hands balled into fists. She strides up to him and passes him the child. Uncomfortably he holds the child who immediately grabs hold of his shirt. There is a moment while Trunks settles and he arranges a better hold on his heir. This feels unwieldy to him; a child in one arm. No, the explanation is foreign; he has been away and focused elsewhere for so long he has lost touch. The pieces fall into place when he makes out the familiar sound of a burner igniting and a large pan being placed atop.

Boy in hand he pours his tea then settles in his familiar spot at the table. Eggs crack into a bowl. The disconnect is in himself. He tastes flour in the air. He enlightens himself, while he has been preparing for the Androids, and later Cell, he had been sequestering himself, affirming the separation of his distractions and remaining focused on his goal. In that single-minded purpose he'd thought he'd set aside permanently all these things; the woman, the child, this household. He'd made peace with it in the Room of Spirit and Time, accepting the explanation that he'd always been separate from everyone else, and therefore would continue to be so. Vanilla is in the air, then sizzling butter, and finally cooking dough. The epiphany is his understanding that while he may have moved forward in his perception by two years, no one else in this room had. Everyone else was where he had been.

Nothing has changed.

_Nothing has changed!_

He sips his tea and enjoys the smell of cooking meat.

)}})*

Their first waking encounter is not the exchange Bulma wishes for, her temper damns her and she is immediately regretful, but too filled up with prideful anger, and hurt feelings. The infuriating extraterrestrial man spent the first weeks of his homecoming not interacting with the heiress, shutting her out, suddenly indifferent to her, regardless of it being her bed she found him in when he returned. He discounts her in the hallway, ignoring her as they pass shoulder to shoulder.

"Come back to crush the rest of my heart? Didn't quite get it all the first time?" The lash of her tongue hurts more then he can remember. There is no external flinch, but internally there is a recoil. Her prophecy comes to fruition; he feels his cold heart plummet into his guts, heavy, hard, and surreal.

"I won't help you anymore." It's declarative and firm. "I can't," a puff of air off her lips. "I don't know how." She sounds plaintive and wounded by the admission. He licks his lips. This is as honest and direct as she has ever been with him. Soon enough he is standing alone in the hall, the click of her door handle refocusing him.

Never had she previously shrunk away from him, always pursuing, or holding, never yielding. The weight of her rejection itches at him in the same way Kakarott's triumphs dig and fester at wounds that never truly close. His hand is opening the door and in moments he is towering over the woman, arms crossed. She is sitting on the bed; hands are shaking in the air as she grasps a cigarette in one, and lighter in the other. She pulls her legs under her. "I…I…I…" She wants to tell him to leave, but she is limited to only stuttering on words. From the bedside table she pulls out the capsule from her lab. Resolutely she drops it over his hands. "Here. Take it, go, you're just making this worse on me. Two rejections were enough. You don't want me, I understand." She reflected.

He gave the Woman and child up in a moment for power, but couldn't take a moment to appreciate what he'd accumulated and invested in since he'd landed; all for a years-long desire for a rematch and his pride. The faintest brush of the idea never failed to make her emotional barriers waver. Bulma hated both the idea of being weak, and hated cowing to Vegeta, then immediately hated Vegeta for making her weak, and then for making her love him, and worse of all for making her sound and think like him. His ongoing silent presence in her room rang with the same indifference that allowed him to ignore his unwanted family's helicopter was no easy solution to this, so she stopped in her search. It was easier to give in, light the cigarette, and find some other way to move on with her life.

The capsule was buried in her sheets the next morning when they were stripped. It infuriated her, the man shut them out and spurned them when the opportunity was available and now he would not leave, seemingly in favor of staying to dig the knife in her back, deeper, and clean through to her wounded heart.

Speak of the devil. He ghosted past the doorway of the kitchen and into the living room. The high-pitched electrical buzz filled her ears and she knew he'd turned on the television. She ignored it while she sipped at her coffee and pulled on her cigarette, a newly rediscovered habit of her past. Today all she'd wanted was an uninterrupted cup of her favorite coffee, a cigarette without nagging, and possibly a brief shower, and all were to be achieved before her son woke and began fussing over his father.

The infant boy now only wanted his father, and had taken to ignoring his mother when the older man could be seen. It stung on a deep level, and resonated unflatteringly with her new view of the future; her and her child.

The cherry fell out of her cigarette and landed in her coffee with a fizzling hiss; both ruined. The flipping of channels and the random raising and lowering of the volume was just enough to push her over the edge. Sleep deprived, hurt, frazzled, and frustrated she launched out of her chair and stalked with balled fists on her thighs into the living room. He looked almost domesticated laying on his side on the couch with an arm and balled pillow to support his head. In the other hand he held the remote, a thumb holding down a button to change the channels endlessly.

"I…" The furious rant she'd drug up in her head during the handful of paces between her morning coffee and the living room dissipated on her lips. The damnable man had fallen asleep. Uncaring if he was woken she shut the television off with the remote.

"Why?" Hands on hips, feet planted and spread she narrowed her eyes at him in fury and indignation. "Tell me why! Why are you back here? Why won't you talk to me? Why? I don't understand" Her rant made her eyes prick with tears; the wound was festering, the weapon of her heart's destruction was still embedded.

He said nothing, just peered up at her from the couch then swung his legs and sat up. Wordless he slung her over his shoulder and just as quietly left the room, ascended the stairs, and closed them into her room. Vegeta tilted her backwards into his hands before depositing her on the bed. She watched him, wary and unsure, more confused when he pulled her flats off her feet and then settled into a space beside her. Bulma was preparing to question the turn of events when she felt him reach beneath her, turn her onto her side and then slip an arm under her head as a pillow and another over her hips. More silence. The mixed messages were indecipherable, but in the warmth it didn't matter, she just wanted more of this.

They laid together until their son cried from the next room. Regretful, she left the warmth to fetch the child. She returned with a red-faced infant who immediately quelled his noises when he spotted his father lounging on the bed; semi-coordinated arms reached out for the older man. Vegeta remained reclined with his eyes closed.

Bunny poked her head in the open bedroom door and without missing a pause, he spoke, "take the boy." To which she did, easily settling the child in her arms, cooing and smiling at her grandson, the child was equally pliable in her arms in the presence of his sire. "We'll go for a walk around the gardens, doesn't that sound fun Trunksie?" He voice trailed off down the hallway and they were alone once again. The damnable uncomfortable silence descended again and she stood awkwardly unsure of how to proceed.

Taking a chance she settled herself back in her cooling spot, and watched her closet door between silent blinks. He initiated the first touch, a palm on her back, then the resettling over her hip. They lay together until she turns to face him, and puts a cautious hand on his chest. "I don't understand." She shares. He shrugs.

In his mind he has been separated from this life for more then two years, returning to it, letting her back near him is difficult, and humbling. There are no words he can articulate to communicate the emotional chasm between them. He needs her affections, and touches to return to the man he was becoming, but the risk of pain from her refusal outweighs the outcomes he envisions.

She understands now when he shrugs, a human behavior he has absorbed overtime. The anger that had built up around her fell away, the epiphany was clear, he too was just as confused, and her anger with him had blinded her. This man was not human, and here she was forcing on him human conventions and expectations with no thought to the foreignness of it all.

Bulma reaches her arms around him and pulls herself close, "stay."


	3. Chapter 3

February 12, 2012 - March 8, 2012

"Happiness is what you make of it Vegeta." She sighed, and looked back out at the dark lawn the windowsill pressed into her ribs when she leaned forwards to blow her smoke through the open window.

"I am happy, and even though you hate the words, I do love you. You can gripe and moan all you want about not loving me back, but you do. It's why you let me in, and why you let me so close. It's why I asked you to stay. It's why I keep rebuilding the gravity machine for you, but seriously now, you HAVE to start telling me about these injuries, especially theses ones." The prone man made no response.

This reminded her of the events leading up to the night Trunks was conceived. The Gravity Room had imploded attempting to contain his power, and she'd seen him for who he was. The exhaustion in his face, and the tenseness in his muscle, it drew her, compelling her to pick him up, watch over him, and eventually it'd lead her to here and now, full circle. They'd never defined their relationship, and internally she'd always just identified him as Vegeta, the man who'd once terrified her, and now she was terrified to be without. He was sleeping now, pulling in long breaths, cushioned on grey sheets and under a quilted geometric coverlet pulled up to his hips to keep warm. Under the black muscle shirt a few wraps of a white bandage were exposed.

Crushing out the cigarette she pushed away from the wall taking the ashtray with her. She leaned over him one last time to lift one arm high enough to work the blanket up to his armpits, leaving one hand free, his preferred arrangement. The golden-tan of his skin didn't stand out as deeply against her pale cream flesh, the inner luminescence normally present had faded with exhaustion and injury. He sleeps the evening away, and is still out cold when she crawls into the other half of the bed, a mere hour before dawn. Around noon when her coffee craving kicks in to wake her, Vegeta is still in the same position, taking slow quiet breaths through his nose.

After her noontime breakfast and a shower she stands over him, worried about the state he'll wake in after having not moved for nearly an entire day. He never slept long, and she knew the aches of oversleeping bothered him from her last experience. She squatted down by his side of the bed, and very softly called his name, emphasizing the V. It didn't take long for him to crack open his eyes and peer at her, face scrunching in the bright natural light.

She stopped herself from launching into a tirade about nearly killing himself in the Gravity Room. Instead she just whispered to him that he should change positions if he wanted to keep sleeping, and that she'd brought him a bit of food if he was interested in it. He blinked at her a few more times, and he relaxed the muscles in his neck once more, then his face went slack with his entrance to unconsciousness. Food on the bedside table, she left. By her return for her usual post-work, pre-dinner shower, her partner had moved positions, the food was gone, and there was evidence of changed bandages in their washroom.

She settled down facing him on her side that night. After watching him for a few moments Bulma spoke very quietly, "you're scaring me." When she drifted off that night she felt uneasy about everything that'd happened in the past few weeks, Vegeta had resumed training in the GR, starting and ending around the same hellish times as before. Then two days prior she'd been out grocery shopping and arrived home just after his training room had exploded. She'd been anxious and furious at the same time as she'd bandaged him up and left him to sleep in the infirmary. He found his way back to their bedroom at some point thereafter, which she discovered after panicking at the empty bed, and the knowledge of a significant head wound. Her heart was rushing a mile a minute, so fast that her hands shook and her fingers struggled to depress on the lighter for her medication of choice – cigarettes.

In the morning Bulma watches him sleep some more, its rare for her to be awake before him. Perfect moment or not, there was still a mess of an outbuilding that held the Gravity Room needing to be cleaned up. She is very thankful when she notes her son is still fast asleep when she looks in on him. Pleased, it seems he has finally passed the anxious clingy phase he'd terrorized her with during Vegeta's absence.

That afternoon she comes rushing in and pauses momentarily in the doorway, Vegeta is reclining, fully dressed against pillows on the headboard, book spine balanced on an propped up leg, while the other lays out ahead. He sits up gracefully, crossing his legs and laying the book facedown ahead of him.

Bulma is distracted, she has climbed up on the bed and sat before him, but couldn't face him, she was too busy reading the title of the book. She remembered when he pushed her chin upwards with a finger to stare at her. It didn't matter though, she was instinctively leaning forwards, as was he until their lips touched and they quietly held the moment. There is nothing more to say afterwards, no need to verbalize that the machine had in fact malfunctioned, as there was no blame, no anger between them, just the tangible reaffirming press of warm lips on hers. She forgets that she is still angry with him for running himself to exhaustion and then subjecting himself to the Gravity Room when he knew that he had a 3 day old head wound of such proportions. The heat from her his hand on hers is the apology she'll never hear in words. Actions are the only honest thing about oneself is what he ascribes to. After pulling away they watch each other for a long time, his hand still on hers.

When she pulls herself along his good side, leaning back into the extra pillow then pressing her head onto his shoulder. He reaches up and around her until her head rests on his chest. Book retrieved he begins reading anew. Bulma sighs her appreciation; he's never let her share his personal time before. She could have figured his tastes probably lay in grand political and war epics however, she would not have expected him to be half way through the third novel in a famous trilogy. It was an ancient story that centered upon the friendship-romance between two celebrated historical figures, their trials and tribulations through a tumultuous period in political history when many city-states were at war with each other for power.

Her heart skips a beat when she notes that the thumb holding book to his thigh twitches ever so slightly as he reads. The author is subtly describing the eve of the characters' long awaited reunion, and she notes with some pleasure that the spine of the book seems well broken in at this place. As he reads on she too becomes engrossed in the story as the leading man fights with his brothers to quell the attacks of their city and to earn enough to pay the woman's exhorbiant bride price. She gets lost in the book then the lull of their silence, and eventually into sleep. Dinner comes and he nudges her awake, having slunk down against the pillows.

It makes her smile when she notices him eating slower, and how he doesn't move his thigh away when their legs touch under the table. Bulma thinks she feels him lean into her fingers as she brushes him across his shoulders while clearing the table, and cleaning up the baby. It is just the three of them.

He is still at the table when she returns from putting the boy to bed, one lone plate of cooling pie half eaten in front of him. The fork he is using hangs loosely in his fingers while his tongue pushes the food over his tastebuds. He only watches her when she slips her fingers under the crust and cracks off a small piece for herself. Then another slippery limp piece of fruit finds its way between her lips, and another after that. His dark eyes are watching her lick her fingers clean of any sticky filling. He resumes eating and soon only a few small bites remain, and Bulma deigns to steal one more piece of warm, soft, sugary apple slice from the near-empty tray. Her thievery earns her another sideways glance.

There is some post-dinner television watching, which results in an unplanned nap for Vegeta. Bulma is sure that he is the same man who first arrived on earth as an enemy, then a tentative ally, and finally the quiet man who communicates through actions more so than his usual defensive responses. She watches his profile, head leaned back, arms in his lap, face lax; it makes her grin. It's the simple moments like these that still make her heart flutter, quiet, normal, everyday things.

She lets him wake on his own, and finds it coincides with the same moment the bot she sent off to make a mounding plate of nachos arrives in the room, meal in tow. While the bot is placing the ample hot platter Bulma finds a somewhat surrealist film a few minutes from starting. It'd been a worldwide success, as it presented a novel way of telling a story, and it was all executed very clean and simply with no one suspecting the twist until the very end.

Bulma smiled around a warm chip in her mouth. The film was just starting to begin the introductions, and already she was watching the usual steady pattern of Vegeta's hand delivering his food; it was slow, then it paused, and finally quickly resumed motions when the movie entered a slow paced scene. He was being drawn in by the film, which seemed to genuinely hold his interest. The snack lasted much longer then usual, nearly halfway through the film. It was doing him some good, as she noticed his skin had regained a hint of its internal glow. The credits rolled and they called it a night, one following the other up the stairs and through the darkened building.

There was normalcy in the oddity that was their evening routine; she brushed her teeth, and he worked at changing his bandages. His unabashed nudity always gave reason to want to watch. He moved so casually, yet clearly propelled by great power and a fastidious deportment. He strode out of the room before she'd finished rinsing out the foamy residues. In the mirror she flashed herself a bright smile downright giddy over something as simple as sleeping next to a man so self-protective, that he'd nearly kill himself to protect his enormous pride, the root of his self-worth.

As she patted her face clean, it dawned on her that she was going to bed to sleep next to and with Vegeta. _Vegeta!_ Funny how a man who over 4 years ago on Namek made her shake with fear, could also make her shake with the same intensity of anticipation over merely sleeping in close proximity to the man. She'd felt this way every night since she'd asked him to stay. In the mornings her eyes alternated between popping open and clenching tight, unsure how she wanted to discover he'd left again, vanished. Her mind and heart hadn't made a determination yet as to if it was inevitable or not, the warm spots on the mattress, or the faint, but steady thrum of the GR she could hear and feel kept her hopeful.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Sorry, I seem to be just spewing complete and utter garbage lately every time I sit down to write. Its more then just not being able to get the words to flow right, it's like I can't think through my ideas, I can't see individuality in my characters, and I certainly can't seem to come up with any original plots. Bleh! I'm trying though. I want to finish everything I've started.

I'm thrilled to take suggestions for where to take this; anything. What other parts of their relationship would you like to see? Should they jump back into bed together right away, or let the sexual tension grow? I guess I'll have to figure out how to write in more tension between them. Prompts?

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He was aggressive today, cantankerous and acerbic. At breakfast no glance had been spared her way in the effort to transport food into his mouth. She'd departed before he'd finished and he could feel the roll of a growl in his chest. The bandages he still sported itched and his head still hadn't fully healed. The exterior wound, the one hidden just into the hairline was nearly gone, his fingers could only palpitate a slightly smooth line of flesh. Things still weren't processing properly for him, there was still internal damage under the pucker of the healing skin.

He was sneaking into her lab when he found her unexpectedly bent over on all fours, back arched, with her shoulders under a mechanical body, electronic guts scattered around. The overalls she wore were pulled tight over her backside. There was much to appreciate, and he was reminded again of how he'd come full circle in his time here, it was five, no, nearly six years ago now since they'd first taken up like this. With no understanding of how to link the sensation in his chest to the words he knew to describe nostalgia, he shrugged and veered away without the fresh bandages and a few secreted pills from her false-bottom drawer.

During lunch he couldn't seem to escape her yet again, this time when she came into the house it was still in her well worn coveralls. As he sat waiting for his meal he was duty-bound, as a man and witness, to watch as she pulled down the zipper, over her chest, down her ribs, past her hips and deep into her belly. The tank top she was wearing underneath was white. His eyes were forced to distinguish that it happened to be slightly sheer. Vegeta shifted in his chair when she slipped the top portion off and tied the arms low on her hips. He looked to the incoming food, and when he looked back the woman had left the room.

The boy was in her arms on her return, fussing and making mewling noises as she talked happily to him. His hands were grasping at the straps, tugging at them to keep him close to his mother, and sometimes down enough to expose significant clevage.

"Common Trunks, lets get something to eat!" She coaxes and persuades the boy to sit with her and eat. The boy is unusually sleepy, usually perking right up at the idea of food. She puts her hand over his forehead and then pulls the knit cap off his head. A kiss to the infants crown, and she rubs her hand on his back as she perches him on her thighs, careful to support him in her lap. The boy is facing his father who catches his eye and prompts the child to lean backwards into his mother using her breasts as a pillow. His blue eyes blink and he settles again sleepily against his mother, watching his father.

Vegeta watches the boy secretly, flicking his eyes up from his recently filled plate at casual intervals. The child grabbing at the soft fruit his mother is holding out for him to grasp. Inspecting it before crushing it against his face and lips and crying when the sticky juices and mashed pulp on his fists are enough to distract him. The mess that accumulates on the boy accounts for a good portion of his meal; all fruit, ripe, and varied. Any offerings of vegetables are tall turned down bluntly, mouth clenched tight against entry.

The woman talks quietly to the boy, speaking into his ears and trying to see if her son will eat a few more pieces for breakfast. He fusses as she cleans his hands and face with a cloth, whining again, on the verge of a melt down. The woman is soft on the boy he decides; it's simple to see, the boy is coming into his power, the ki pathways that each saiyan child is born with are coming alive. They're starting to fire randomly, the channels opening and closing unconsciously, a precursor to manifesting and manipulating ki.

The boy is sleepy again, sitting and staring straight ahead at his still eating father, eyelids drooping against the child's fight to stay awake and watch his sire. As he begins to lean forwards in semi-sleep his mother catches him effortlessly and turns him around to carry him from the table. The small blue eyes peek over the slope of her shoulder, and one arm lifts up and the attached tiny hand flops up and down. As the older man finishes his last dish the pair depart around the corner. The farewell gesture from his son was unexpected and unanticipated, the boy was becoming _comfortable_ with him!

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The quiet of the large dome and the absence of the push to train inside him drove Vegeta to meditate, a mid-way concession to his drive to fight, and the plaguing exhaustion that still dogged at his heels. In the afternoon hours as the sun creeps across the floor, and up his stiff body, he is trying to center himself enough to enter the place of stillness that encompassed meditation. The plateau that one usually ascends to in mediation would not stabilize for him, a sign of lacking practice. His mind drifts aimlessly, focusing pointlessly on the heat on his skin where the sunlight touches him, then on a new warmth he finds in his chest. The rustle of her clothes give her away, she is oddly patient. Her quiet forces him to crack open one eye to reassure himself of her motives and purpose for seeking him out.

He realizes she is fidgeting, fingers flexing and twitching at the tips, so he arches a brow at her and opens his other eye. They meet and she opens her mouth to speak, but is somehow halted from getting words out by her bottom lip catching on her teeth. She rolls it between her teeth and something tickles at his lips; it should be him indenting her soft flesh. The words tumble out, "I think…I think you need to start training with Trunks."

He'd released the raised brow, and was now raising it once again encouraging her to go on. Instead she sank down to her knees and tugged up the edge of her shirt until he could see the underside of one breast and the shadow of the other. Two large blue-purple and green bruises showed, one appearing over her hip, and the other partially hidden above the exposed skin; both were fresh and still developing. The woman calmly tugged the shirt downwards again. As the seam of skin between her coveralls and tank began to shrink he resisted the twitch in his fingers that wanted him to stretch his is arm forward and touch those very marks, verify the proof of the boy's early development. He wants to share his observations of the boy, but can't claw together whatever he needs to push the words out into the open, so he gives a quick curt nod. Neither continues the conversation, and to avoid the self-conscious silence he closes his eyes and moves to return to his meditative practice.

He opens his eyes much later to breasts; high, rounded and soft looking, held in a lowneck shirt. They're invading his space, and for once he doesn't want to resist and fight off the invasion. The woman is leaning over him her face close to his, the expression on her face akin to the curious one she wears when discovering something new. He shifts, repositioning himself in his sweatpants to try and recapture his interrupted concentration, ignoring the ache that has arisen from nowhere.

"What?" He calls to her, disoriented by the evidence of her femininity.

"Its dinner, and I've called you twice already." She focuses her blue eyes and he can see she is looking to the site of his healing head wound. He was giving away his discomfort to her by lowering his eyes abashed at her inquiring look. Her concern made his cheeks burn. Her hand is next in front of his face, open palm waiting for his, and offer to help him up.

At the dinner table he observes the boy. He is advanced even by saiyan standards; communicating early non-verbally, pointing, grasping, pulling himself to stand using the strength in his muscles. He inherited his mother's propensity for loud screams, and probably her vocal cords as well. That much was certain. The boy fills himself happily with cubes of steamed or boiled vegetables from dishes in front of him. He is far more awake, willing to sit separately from the woman.

After the meal the woman gathers the boy and puts a hat over his head, "come for a walk with us Vegeta." His sensitive ears picked up the hopeful inflection in her tone and very clearly he is reminded of her admission that she'd like him to train the boy. He joins them walking down the path a few steps behind the woman hands in the pockets of the sweatshirt he's wearing. Eventually they fall into step alongside each other, Trunks in the woman's arms watching his father until he recognizes the entry to the indoor gardens, and then begins to squirm with excitement.

Bulma stops and lets the boy down, standing over him smiling while waiting for him to act. The child sits and claps his hands giggling and smiling to himself. Vegeta is uncomfortable; he doesn't know how to interact with the woman this way, or the boy. To him she is still the woman who argued with him, fixed his training machines, and let him slip between her thighs when she was feeling feisty. Here and now she does none of these things, which only serves to make the connection they'd once had more foreign and distant to him.

He wants to know why she has not invited him back into her bed as before. Yes, he sleeps on the same pallet and shares the same blankets however, he doesn't feel the wicked fire he used to feel for her. Instead of a popping cracking heat, it lays hidden, interred under the whispy ashes of their initial combustion. She is muted to him, and he knows that she has retracted herself the smallest amount, displaying a caution around him he'd never seen from her before, its insalubrious.

The child is thrilled with his new surroundings, and soon begins to explore. Bulma eventually has to pick the infant up again when he begins to transfer all he touches to his mouth to taste. "Silly boy! You shouldn't be eating that." She coos and they begin walking again through the garden. Eventually they come to a small clearing, on the ground is a square of rubberized bricks, soft and cushioning. There is an assortment of coloured blocks ranging from half the boy's size to twice as large. There are balls and other toys in boxes around the perimeter. In the center Bulma sits and places Trunks down between her crossed legs.

As the sky above through the glass ceiling turns dark the boy plays, climbing, swating and grasping at the shapes his mother pulled within his reach. She was teaching him, strengthening his muscles and helping to exhaust the burst of energy he'd gotten shortly after dinner. The Woman talked to him intermittently, she didn't expect any answers from him, and in her manner, and the topic itself he found an old piece of himself; rebuilding the gravity room. Her conversation is superficial, no longer dipping into the intensely personal areas she'd recently been inquiring after. He feels like he wants to be anticipating her pressing words to force him to verbalize his inner thoughts, anything to renew the sudden severance of an already tenuous relationship. He watches the boy crawl to his next objective while the talking continued.

The longer she talks, the less he feels the personal nuances he is used to from her in their communication. His boy is tiring now, movements slower, quicker to become frustrated with his environment. He wonders who cared for him as a boy this age. They're sitting nearly side by side now, she has remained on the spongy ground and he has sat on one of the blocks nearby. He could swear her breasts looked larger now then they had when he'd first sat down.

The boy crawls back to his mother making noises of displeasure, interrupting a perfectly good monologue on the room shape and design of the gravity room. She pulls the boy to sit in her lap and he rewards her with a slap to the chest that makes her squeeze her eyes shut and hold the boy away from her. Eventually she calms her face and opens her eyes, speaking firmly to the boy she informs him there is no hitting. Vegeta is curious and slightly awed at the distance the woman goes to avoid displaying her pain to the child.

The boy makes more noises and reaches out his hands. When she tucks him close to her body he pats at her breasts, softer this time, but still enough for him to watch her eyes flutter for a moment.

"Do you mind?" She asks him looking wary. Vegeta hasn't a clue as to her reference, but shrugs indifferently to protect his pride. The infant is wriggling in her grasp fussing and making mewling growls. Bulma is prepared, having learned her lesson when she'd had to dress Trunks in Yajirobi's scarf, and as such she pulls and tosses something from her pocket. The capsule opens a bit far from her, but without missing a beat she turns to him and asks him to pass her the folded green blanket that is just out of her reach. Without argument he does, and smiles at him when he hands it to her. She misses touching him, it's decided.

Blanket tossed over one shoulder he does not understand what is happening under the green shroud. Instead she starts talking again, the boy's plaintive whines silenced. "Tell me more about what you want changed in the room." She prompts, her eyes moving around blankly as she reaches under the cover to shift something. When he doesn't answer she is strangely unphased but picks up where she left off regardless, "I was thinking of upgrading the interface to something I've been playing around with."

Vegeta has been sucker punched and he didn't even see it coming. The unsettling feeling, the seemingly unending exhaustion was her, the Woman. The further she disengaged from him, the more disconnected he felt to this alien world, and it'd been manifesting and culminating from the moment their future son had lept back to his own time. The anger Vegeta had felt at the betrayed sense of shock and the painful feelings that came with realizing that he'd made emotional attachments on this planet. He'd sat out in the desert for days staring into nothingness until he'd decided he would forgo future ones, and remain to teach his son to be strong, proud, and brave. The unexpected twist, the gut clenching revelation, was that while he had avowed himself to no longer make those connections, the woman was simultaneously pulling further and further away from him, perhaps unknown even to her, and he disliked it.

Here he was sitting realizing that it could not go both ways for him, either he could continue as he was, holding himself above and away from it all as he used to be, or he could try to regain what he'd left in the wake of his actions in early May. Something honest in him surged upwards and decided quickly; _regain, regain, regain_. It overshadowed his doubts, and forced down the lingering question of what he could achieve with his newfound power if only he was not bound by the emotional connections he was returning himself into.

His eyes make contact with hers and she smiles at him again, something she's been doing a lot since they'd reached their own version of an armistice upon his return. She is asking him if he wants to see having misinterpreted his moment of reflection for staring at the blanket.

She pulled back the blanket and the mystery was revealed. The boy was watching him; mouth working at her hidden nipple and a hand between the valley of her breasts. Vegeta was stunned. He'd never seen the boy feed like this before, and that feeling of awe reemerged. Bulma'd pulled her shirt down, off one shoulder and under herself to expose half of her chest to the boy. "You know, I promised myself I'd wean him from this. I realized you were right when you told me I coddle him too much." The way she spoke to him reminded him of his earlier desire to have a reason to be anxious for her words. He nodded for once. They both watched the boy suckling with half-lidded eyes.

He surprised them both, "what else do you know?" His eyes were still on the boy whose face was relaxed in contentment. "Plenty." She replied and moved the boy to the shoulder and tapped him on his back, before manuvering again to switch the infant to the other breast without exposing herself to him. The boy could no longer watch them, so he watched her instead. The way she held the child, rubbing his back and legs as he ate, made his insides feel funny. Soon after the infant's body relaxed in her arms and she busily moved to wipe the boys face and pull her shirt back up to cover up.

"How's your head?" She questioned as she repositioned the sleeping boy and packing back up her opened capsule. She nods at his grunt.

"Are _we_ okay Vegeta?" She stands and he moves to match her. In silence they walk back to the garden entrance. Before they emerged from the winding path and put themselves within the line of sight of the outside, he stopped and quickly turned to her pressing his lips to hers. Their chests concave to accommodate their sleeping son. It's brief and it sparks those coals buried under the first incarnation of themselves.

When she pushes further into the contact he knows its him she is reacting to, not a reaction to his actions in which she is just on the periphery. He recognizes her anger over his return from battle against Cell, while is the central tenant of their interpersonal conflict, however for him is just on the edge of the larger picture; he is once again the displaced prince, lost and without a home or purpose. In his drive to make sense of his initial decision to remain on Earth he'd separated himself from the one thing that had made the planet seem less alien, the woman, his intermediary to all things since his release from his mercenary life.

"Yes." He breathes it against her lips as they part and he steps back.


	5. Chapter 5

April 6-10, 2012

**a/n: **I'm hoping forcing myself to write will make things easier, so far the results are so so.

During a late breakfast the television blares the 'entertainment news' mentioning the woman's name. The fork in his hand is sacrificed over the video displayed; as an inherently private man made paranoid by his past he did not take well to someone exposing portions of his personal, and thus private, life. Honor dictated respect and dignity and this act was an intrusion.

The television showed Bulma pushing a wire cart with the boy sitting on a platform near the edge. She was talking in the soft tone she reserved for the boy and sometimes for him when she used to lay on the cusp of sleep before he'd gone off to fight the androids. "Trunks, now what do you think your father will want to eat tonight? Shrimp? Maybe some beef?" There is more footage of her giggling with the boy, sharing smiles and her touching him, putting his hands in his, and other such gestures. The video continues with a new scene, one with the woman enunciating the name of each vegetable and fruit she was placing in the full cart. She'd hold out one to her son to smell, watching him careful as he would inhale and scent each item she presented, again repeating the name and reinforcing it all with smiles and noises of praise.

At the end of the video it cut to an overly dressed up woman who commented that Bulma had not been seen much in the public eye since the unexpected storm of bad press that surrounded her pregnancy. Photos flashed onscreen of Bulma in different stages of her pregnancy accompanied with a statement about the lingering questions over the paternity of the child and why it was that the father had not married the mother, nor been disclosed. The program closes with the host commentating on how it looks like Ms. Brief has come out of hiding from the press.

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As discussed Bulma presented him with a very clean roll of paper, a fresh blueprint for the Gravity Room. The shape was more oval the circular, it gave him more floor space to work with. He scrawled a few changes and left them for her to find in her lab, vanishing for the day without a word.

It took her three days to integrate his commentary to her plans; things were ramping up at CC, pulling her away from the compound. If her son had been filling the void her dedication to Vegeta had left, then CC was filling the remaining emptiness in her life that Vegeta had not filled, nor seemed interested in excluding a few moments of physicality.

In the time since his arrival on Earth they'd steadily been drawn together, for better or worse. After learning of the Androids their time together grew exponentially, then there was the Great Divide as the enemy had appeared and he'd not moved to save the woman or her son. The Divide had persisted until just recently when it'd reached two high points of conflict; his decision to remain on Earth, and an internal push to attempt to regain part of whatever it was that initially drew them together. He was struggling to find that level of comfort with her and those initial kernels of deep intimate trust that started them down this pathway years before.

After breakfast one morning he'd remained in his seat, with no plan or training to undertake it seemed appropriate that he stay there. The Older Woman began to prepare another meal, and to his nose it smelt like she was beginning with desert. She moved a couple of papers off her workspace onto the table, and eventually he picked one up.

The tingling sensation that denoted the Woman's ki in his mind told him she was approaching, the boy too. He remained as he was, paper open ahead of him cutting off the view. His sensitive nose curled upwards in distaste at the smell she brought with her. It was faint, but pungent, and hat notes in it that reminded him of the putrefaction of amphibious creatures in the hot sun. "Mom, can Trunks stay up here with you? I'm just about ready to drop in an engine and some beams, and I don't want him around all the welding I have to do." A pause, "oh that? Just some leaked lubricant that dripped on me" Another pause, "thanks Mom! Hi Dad!" Then the noise of her retreating steps and the foul smell began to dissipate. He heard giggling and dropped the paper to the table, the older woman was grinning in his direction having caught Bulma's misidentification.

Cookies, then pies went in and out of the oven. The boy was sitting in high chair nearby, turned to watch the older woman. He returned to his paper, and she turned the television on. The giggles of the child gave him reason to look over the edges of the papers, only to scoff. The boy was clapping his hands at the television depicting the moon. He kept watching long enough to see an advertisement about a Moon Festival. There is an offhand remark from Mrs. Brief, "Bulma's going to be thrilled! It's her favorite!" She declares with a wink he is meant to interpret as salacious.

He has long ago given up trying to avoid the cheek burning commentary from this woman. Instead he relied upon the beeping oven to distract her. In one last cowardly move he left his son, his own flesh and blood, to suffer under the blonde's particular form of torture; smiles, knowing looks, and double entendres he was never quite sure she was knowingly uttering. He'd once contemplated the likelihood of it all being a string of unfortunately worded coincidences. It'd ended with him suffering from a headache and desiring copious amounts of liquor when he realized she'd probably known all the dirty things she'd been saying all along. The casualty with which she treated his private matters; sex (_with her daughter!_) and behind closed doors interactions (_with her daughter!_ ). He did however understand the woman's adamant insistence that he never harm her parents, thus his choice to leave Trunks behind in his highchair while he retreated from the kitchen. His son's happy noises taunted him in his escape. He needed to find a reprieve and followed his feet wherever they took him.

The first thing he did when arriving to Bulma's lab was to relive those terrible moments that trailed after his son's death. There was blood coalescing in a thick pool, gooey and nearly set under a pair of legs in coveralls. He followed up towards the torso, finding them spread under a piece of machinery. There was a bout of internal vertigo; then an ache in his chest, that old scar, and for a moment he was trapped in a crushing silence, confined in his own body to watch the gory scene. Vegeta rushed forwards and without hesitating used one hand to push backwards on the machine thrusting it into the air to embed itself into the wall.

He turned his head with his eyes closed, not wanting, but having to look at what the sight of the gelatinous pool had already started chanting in his head, '_dead, dead, too much blood.'_ He leaned forwards wanting to punish himself with the grisly scene and confirm for himself, so he opened his eyes.

She was laying there staring opened eyed at him. The color from her eyes hadn't faded yet; it looked like she was watching him.

And she blinked.

He was frantic. Palms pushing into her side, over the wide wet patch on her lower quadrant; staunch the bleeding. He never looked back up at her face, he could feel her arms around his back, and he squeezed his eyes closed again, the ache in his chest, and the solemn knowledge about blood loss arithmetic. Breathy gasps caught his ear; his name from her lips, fingers working at his neck.

"Vegeta. Shh! Vegeta? Hey! Hey. I'm ok, I'm ok." She freezes time with her admission.

Her face is very much so alive, and he sits back on his haunches, hands still pressed into her side - processing.

"It was easier to work on if I got under it on the floor." She lamely broke the tension. He was drawn into watching her. He could feel her hand on his chest, and somewhere deep within he rhythmically opening and closing the ki pathways in his body. That sensation was like swirling liquid in a cup, sloshing from limb to limb, creating freefall in his belly.

His hands came away covered and he put them on his thighs, still crouched over her. She sat up and pulled down the zipper of her coveralls. Under the separated halves the red had spread soaking her shirt and suctioning to her skin. "It's not blood, it's coolant." She added looking between his hands and her stomach. She can still see the quick motions in his gut; rapid breathing so quiet and well perfected. She's frightened him.

She stands cautiously and he matches her until they're both fully on their feet. She's off her feet the moment she is on them and then sitting on her own bathroom vanity moments thereafter. He'd pulled off her coveralls, and kicked them out the door before she'd realized it. He turned the shower on and turned back to her. His shirt, now bearing a red stain over one shoulder, came off in a quick stroke, his pants land outside with the coveralls. She looks at him once testing the waters.

Her pants go next, and then the world is blurry again, moving too quickly to track and follow. He is standing between her thighs, hitching her legs around his waist as he leans in.

Kisses from Vegeta are always welcomed; its not unique to Earth, but the connotations and expectations are. Bulma has always thought he liked the rules behind them, and their levels of familiarity. Vegeta was a deeply private man, and she respected and understood his need to hold back in front of others. Kissing was just further proof of it. Lip touches and brushes from this man are cautious and carefully placed and have never, before just recently, been initiated by him. It'd become part of their private language before shut himself away to complete his training. They do not talk, they touch, they yell, they sling barbs, and argue. Vegeta is rarely an articulate man, he does not communicate well with others, yet somehow in the static of his non-speaking, and harsh behaviors, she comprehends.

She can barely scrape together enough working memory to remain seated, near naked to Vegeta. Her heart still hurts, she is still unsure, but quickly being overruled by the aches in her body. His fingers are in her underwear, over her sides and tugging downwards until she's exposed. He pulls her forwards until they can both feel what is coming next.

It's frantic, and rushed, but it is deeply satisfying,

They bathe afterwards, standing under the shower spray, washing the sticky red away. She catches him watching her wet body, it's the silvery lines that catch his eye in the light and she touches herself self-consciously.

They dress and without words arrive to the kitchen, the ever-present hub in their lives. The note on the fridge says they're on their own for the evening. Bulma raids the fridge and proposes she cook, if he agree to keep her company.

She dices vegetables, sears and season meat, and creates a sauce. It doesn't take long until she has chopped enough to feed her voracious companion. She set the rice cooker, and set to work. Soon enough the room smelt of garlic, ginger, onions and cooking meat. Bulma stood over the pan watching the contents as carefully. She sat down at the table with the pan contents and began to fashion dough wrappers into rolls. In the end there is a simple meal on the table, and they share it sitting side by side.

They don't talk about it, any of it; it's against their natures, contrary to their relationship. Instead they take bites of their meal, he ignores the tabloid with her photo on it, and they settle back into the quickly fading nuances of their old relationship. It's like crawling into warm blankets on a cold night; reassuring and serving to smooth out the ripples and highpoints in their fragile connection.

At night he stared at the ceiling and forced himself to think back a few hours. The smell of that coolant would always remind him two moments, forever sewn together. When he'd traveled through space to ascend, he'd been lonely, his inner madness tortured by the endless silence around him. The lonely ache became a festering wound, which fed into the anger he channeled to break through and surge into his birthright. He'd smelt the coolant then, in the lessening buzz of his first transformation he could scent damaged ship components. He'd ignored the aroma, as it made it him focus back on reality, and the scratching thought that power did not fill the emptiness of having others. In the Woman's lab he'd lost his sense of smell, disregarded it in a rush to prevent that crushing silence from rushing inwards to his person again. She filled that gap; his need for interaction, she's fed and nurtured it. The seconds in which he thought he was alone again, having to once again start over in the universe, he felt the touch down of dread, heavy and weighted on this shoulders. Deep down something whispered to him; no amount of saiyajin strength would save him then.


	6. Chapter 6

**a/n:** I have so many half finished ideas and I need to just complete and post. This is one of those things that only needed a couple more paragraphs to round it out.

April 6 - June 17, 2012

The boy's power startles him out of sleep. Eyes wide open, body tensed, he looked around in the darkness, and set out his senses to investigate. The child is grabbing at his feet, rolling on his back. His face is red and scowling. There is no question that the boy is his son, his own facial expressions are constantly being mirrored back at him, the saiyajin in him at the forefront of his physical appearance. The child's power surges and he rubs a hand down his face, the woman is right he does need training.

Elsewhere in the room he located the padded chair he'd slept in for the first year of his arrival. The chair was familiar, the cushioning plush, comfortable, and shaped just for him. He'd turned it to watch the dark sky from his vantage point trying to jog his memory and rack his brain for ideas on how to begin training an infant so young. He was unsure how the chair had arrived in her room in the first place, but had remarked that the elder woman had recently again re-arranged the household. A hazy artificial glow began to creep up; the automatic city lighting was coming on in the pre-dawn hours to guide early risers to their tasks. In a few hours the sun would rise and he will have passed another day here on this planet.

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When it came to the woman there were two, maybe three days in her cycle that she was more then able to render him weak and helpless. It felt like having everything fall into place when it happened and typically he struggled very hard against this 'rightness', as it frightened him. His body begged him to give in to her each and every time and with every new opportunity he nearly did.

On the first day she'd needed to rub her front up against his back in order to push past him in a doorway. His knees weakened, and his back became hypersensitive to better acknowledge and experience the sensation of her pressed near and across him. With nearly nothing he could do to tire himself out physically he'd had to resort to practicing

The day thereafter he sauntered into her lab with no urgency, coming to a stop right behind her watching her write out equations by hand. He couldn't remember why he'd come into the room. Her hair was pinned up off her neck, and her shoulders were near bare, interrupted only by the straps of a dress. Powerless he leaned forwards and began torturing her by pressing his mouth to her skin. "Mmm" she groans and leans back into him slightly while still scrawling across the paper. The weight of her pressing backwards into his chest is pleasant and encouraging. The assault continues and expands, upwards on the column of her neck now, and to behind her ear. She is moving in earnest now, squirming on her lab stool left and right. Her unoccupied hand is soon groping at his face, tracing her fingers up his jaw to separate his lips from her skin. When he does she presses those same digits to his mouth to hold him in pause while she finishes her equation. It does not hold and soon he has somehow convinced her fingers with his tongue to give up silencing him and instead they're digging into his hair, running along his scalp.

"Can't make this the slight bit easy can you?" She turns, marker in one hand, equation finished, even if half way through the penmanship had become sloppy. She can see the red marks from his teeth on the slope of her shoulder, aggressive and territorial indents, proclaiming his animalistic intent. She abandoned the marker and turned on her seat, "The revised plans are done, just recalculating…well, trying to," she rolled her eyes at him, "the gravity field needs to be adjusted from a circular form to an elliptical one. Aaannnddd we need to talk about bots." She was watching him, and he was sure, trying to influence him in some way with her body. He couldn't however quite decipher if she was just amazingly cunning with this knowledge, or incredibly lucky to have been found by him in such places at such a time.

Somehow, he'd become trapped between her knees, a leg on either side of his. He remembered why he'd come into this room; hands around her hips he lifted her until she was on tabletop and was quickly again between her, stool out of the way. The bottom of her dress fell between her parted legs, hiding her until he slid his hands up her legs and under the hem bunching it higher and higher around her slim waist. The further upwards he roamed the further back she leaned until she was resting on her forearms watching.

Her undergarments were patterned in cutesy hearts, the kind the made him roll his eyes at Earth's endless naivety about the dangers of the universe at large, and the endless propensity to snub their collective noses at it. His fingers brushed the leg openings and slid through until he grasped the lacy scalloped waistband and swiftly divested the woman of her underwear tossing them behind himself, most likely never to be seen again. The position felt familiar, and he ran his tongue over his teeth at the memory of her on the bathroom countertop – he was feeling adventurous; her proximity made him want to advertise his virility, very loudly.

He was always one to seek somewhere private and able to withstand holding the secret of what would transpire between its walls. Today he was bold and wanted to flaunt his connection to this woman so he snatched her wrists and pulled her forwards and off the table. He disguised ensuring her skirt fell into place by groping at her behind, running his palms against her hips, ass, and up and down her thighs. One deeply tanned hand wrapped around a pale, lighter, thinner wrist led them out of the room, and up to the top level, in which a balcony ran around to a platform and a ladder that led up to a access port. Through it, the roof, and a small area of flattened space. There was no denying that the gesture for her to go first was offered for no other reason then the simple one. Going second gave him the opportunity to follow the woman up the ladder; a little in-transit entertainment if you will.

On the roof he pulled her towards him and then tugged backwards the lapels of her white lab coat. The jacket serves as their blanket, and soon he crouches above her, muscular legs on either side of her hips, hands flicking at the buttons of her dress that trails down her chest and to her navel. His canines looked larger when he grinned as a second button separated from it's hole, and wider yet when the third, then fourth through sixth also split apart until the dress forms a V on her skin. '_Marked for me!_' He thinks before pouncing.

First he works at removing the dress, nipping, licking, and suckling to distract and guide her body into letting him work the loose skirt higher. He is interrupted and his plans to dominate are razed; it is the quickest and most efficient destruction of his ability to withstand her. The desire he held not to give into the scores of moments of temptation that had amassed since his arrival was dwindling like cooling embers, its glow fading. Logically he wanted to caution himself; the last time he'd given in to her he'd nearly lost himself, enticed by all she'd offered, and confounded to find that all her promises to him had mostly held true. It'd been so good, so deeply rewarding and fulfilling that he'd fled; perpetually fearful of the expected backlash and vicious retribution for having indulged in something he had never considered he'd have. Upon his desertion of the Temptress and his newly birthed son he'd worked to cleanse himself of his experiences on the mudball planet. He'd learned later, an epiphany while standing over the woman herself upon his return, that he was never able to purge himself of the indelible mark on him, instead, he compartmentalized it, driving it all away until the death of his son once again brought it all to the forefront. Here and now, removed from the heat of the battle he could do little to look beyond her for the expected castigation. The anticipation and prospect of punishment was fading with each encounter, and every turned-true and fulfilled promise.

The destruction of his will to resist, to withhold himself from her, was followed up by a breaking of his defenses. She was in his hands, they were hot on her bare thighs, her legs bent, one arm reaching back to support herself the other pressing into his chest. Her fingers creeped along the collar line of his shirt, then her palm, pressing close through the material, over his heart. With her powers of persuasion at a high he found himself leaning backwards in his crouch, then forwards again towards her after she'd pulled herself to her knees. The V of her open dress called to him, he wanted to slide his hands into each side and run them up and down her sides, sliding a thumb under the warmth of each breast. Instead he pressed lower to the ground under her hand falling onto his haunches.

The Woman was as graceful as she was fast. The weight of her settling on his lap, warm, nude thighs pressing into his hips and legs, even her toes curling under the backs of his knees, make him flex his pelvis and grind his teeth. Adept hands work at his belt, button and zipper until she sits above him. Her hips rolling on his, skirt bunched in his hands, pressed between him and her skin. She glories in the way his eyes slid shut, dark lashes fluttering briefly in false protest. During the act she reaches for his hands, watching his slack face with a smile, guiding them atop her chest until he rubs and palms her, garnering a breathy moan from her in reward. Bulma read him superbly, skillfully, and with a mastery that elicited a pinnacle unlike any other. He clutches at her, sitting up, arms pulling her tight, chest-to-chest. Her prowess and dexterity make his legs tense, and drives him to bury his face in her neck, inhaling and immersing himself in her till the very last.

Lying in the sun's lazy afternoon rays atop her spread coat, they stayed together, napping in the warm sunlight. It felt like something they would have done before the boy came along. The sex, it made him feel closer to the man he'd been, while keeping him anchored heavily in the present, the sated quiet it brought over them was enjoyable.

These were the little things he was learning about, before she'd taught him about secret liaisons, quickies, and how to work the confusion that is earth's clothing for sexual encounters – lingerie. Now she was showing him the value of touch, and the intimacy in the moments after; the depth of their connection was growing. He found himself wanting to spend time with her outside of their trysts, and his training needs more and more time since his panicked discovery in her lab.

He finds himself watching her, tracking her as he used to in his early days. The thought of tracking her down, and perhaps even to pursuing her through the labyrinth of the compound, made his skin tingle. The excitement jumped when his mind toyed with the idea of taking his chase to the outdoors.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

As the last days of summer dwindle, he notes how much more frequently that the woman is not at the compound. The boy is more frequently flexing his power, throwing growing tantrums and entering into something akin to a sulk at a moments notice. The child was becoming petulant. The last string of his patience was tested when the infant clumsily lobbed a handful of meat and vegetable sauce at him.

The boy soon found himself sitting on his bottom in front of his father's crossed legs. His son's scowl mirrored his own. Vegeta was trying to decide if Trunks was going to begin wailing, and he was correct. Soon the boy's eyes became watery, and the tears began to manifest, and finally with a shriek it becomes a full-blown fit. His power fluctuates and stuffed creature the boy had brought with him levitates in the otherwise empty room. It was the room he'd occupied before he'd impregnated the woman. When the child's tantrum had raised the plush animal a few feet off the ground he responded in kind by raising his own power level to dwarf the child's and further heighten the toy.

It occurred to him that his infant heir was stronger now then his had been at this age. He reveled in the awe on the child's face he watched the plaything suspended in the air, and then the anger on his young face when he reached for, but could not grasp it.

Unsure exactly what he was doing with the boy they stared at each other after the toy fell. A stillness grew; neither looking away from the others' eyes. Trunks blinked first and yawned and Vegeta could feel the boy's energy waning. It'd spiked with anger and surprise and was now fading rapidly, with each moment he leaned further and further forwards until his head rolled to his chest, and his eyes sealed shut. He was quick enough to catch the infant before the weight of his small body pressed into the carpet.

He contemplated what to do with a sleeping boy when the infant suddenly sat himself up, hands outstretched towards him. The gesture made him feel helpless, his son is inexplicable to him still, a small version of the older boy he'd found one of his reasons in for staying. Somehow the idea of remaining to train up the child was too abstract to align with sitting here on this floor levitating objects through ki spikes and manipulation. He started again, raising his own power level until he could see his son feeling the expanding sphere of energy he exerted.

Many of his unoccupied moments in daily life were spent devising, strategizing, and observing. He'd been plotting and designing how to sculpt the power he'd created, the impediment was that he had no training with babes, and very little understanding of his own young child. The gap was nearly as significant between father and son as the one between himself and Bulma. Speaking of, his finely attuned extra perceptive senses alerted him to her pending arrival at the compound.

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He liked the way she dangled her fingers near his mouth. The pitch and cadence of her moans when he closed his lips around a digit and palpitated its length with his tongue were exquisite. Who knew that being caught training the boy would result in such a passionate response from her at only the slightest of insistences from him. However, he did feel an unexpected amount of concern over the child watching them, or even being in the same room with them while they copulated. This was why they were together in the room she always called 'theirs', and the boy was in his own area asleep, exhausted.

She had arrived in a bustle back at the compound, smiling, laughing, and generally in a good mood. Under her arm she cared large flat carved box, it was wrapped in a length of silk that served as a strap. The box was handled nearly as reverently she handled Trunks, placed on the foot of the bed. He raised a brow in her direction to indicate the displeasure with her placement of the box. While he tolerated her disorganization, he drew the line at using the bed as a storage space. He had been reading when the box landed on the bed, and now he'd lost his place on the page when he'd had to share his displeasure with Bulma.

However, she'd dissolved his dissatisfaction when she'd undone the silk strap and crawled up the bed towards him with it. On her knees she approached him saucily with the strip of fabric taut between her hands. He'd let her lean in and run her tongue over the edge of his ear, nibble at the border of his jaw, and suckle at his neck. He made no move to dissuade her from settling in his lap, or even when she carelessly plucked and tossed his book out of his hands. As soon as she'd ascertained his full attention was firmly on her, she leaned forwards and asked; "do you like me in silk?" Lack of earth relationship experience or not, he knew it was a loaded question.

The boy interrupted with cries and whimpers that spewed through the speaker of a transmitter. As soon as the woman left the room to console the child, he vacated too, although he was more in favor of ignoring the ache in his pants by replacing it with sore muscles.


	8. Chapter 8

a/n: I actually hate how this turned out and was never going to post it, but someone convinced me to do so. Besides, clearing stuff off my computer feels pretty nice.

Chapter 8

In the past month life at Capsule has been moving along rather quickly, but quietly; there was a new household schedule. Vegeta had resumed training, working in to take the boy for at least an hour each day. Three days prior though, the woman had knocked on the door of the Gravity Room and dropped off bots. Now this behavior in and of itself is innocuous, however, her persistent silence while she did so was not.

While Bulma held an innate ability to decipher him, he did not possess the same of her. As such when she appeared one day knocking on the door to the Gravity Room, he was perplexed. She was breaking the rules of their interactions; she was seeking him out for purposes other then sex, fighting, or eating. The easiest way to answer his own curiosity was to open the door, and so he did. Instantly he regretted the choice, the woman was dressed up, a key indicator of ongoings outside the norm.

She began to chatter. He crossed his arms and looked sternly at her. Immediately he wanted rescind his actions as she craftily produced a sealed tray and cracked a corner. Earthlings had perfected food storage; he hadn't been able to smell the contents until she'd lifted the lid. A slave to his stomach, and a supplicant at the altar of delicious food, Vegeta was powerless to resist without the correct motivator. Bulma was clever to appeal to his stomach, and other appetites, however the side effect was that he missed the bulk of the conversation excluding the part at the end where she summarized by saying she would create for him additional training tools upon her return.

He had intended to probe the question of her leaving, although he'd forgotten the moment he'd finished eating, and she'd relieved him of the container. When he'd crossed his arms she'd leaned in and rested her breasts in the cradle he'd created. She placed one hand on his shoulder and in his ear she whispered until she could feel the heat of his blush through her thin shirt. They walked backwards, hands roaming, and the container bounced on the ground.

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Bulma was a touch frustrated. Vegeta and her had picked up as hot and furious as they'd ever been. Then she'd surprised him in the Gravity Room for an afternoon snack-chat and romp for nostalgia's sake, and now, it'd been a month dry. A month! For the pair of them that was eons. They'd barely figured out anything else in their relationship, but she'd been sure they'd figured out the sex part. This morning alone she'd woke sweating from an intensely erotic dream that almost played as a 'best of' reel of their past encounters and most potent moments. Unfortunately despite the early hour, she woke up alone. There was no time to dwell, she needed to get up and start her day; it was the start of a new project.

Her new side project kept her busy, but something in the back of her mind reminded her, again, she had no assurances he'd stay. They seemed to be spending less and less time together and more and more time in passing. For the past week their main points of communication were notes on prints in her lab, and the handoff of their child. They were rarely even eating at the same times now, like when he'd first taken up residence.

As Bulma rushed out of the room for her first appointment of the day, Vegeta arrived through the balcony doors to watch the door click shut.

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Mrs. Brief sat flipping through a gardening book. Every day this week she'd seen either her daughter or Vegeta entering or leaving various rooms within minutes of each other. She was about to offer to make the aforementioned man a meal when the buzzer rang; someone was at a door. Her houseguest was gone when she returned with an appointment for Bulma.

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Vegeta cast out his senses for the woman and noted she was in one of the house's sitting rooms. He was going to ambush her he'd decided; sneak up as close as he could without utilizing what where commonly referred to as his 'super skills'. In his head he envisioned the spoils of war that come with victory; the softness of her thighs, the press of her lips, and the delicious pants and moans she'd make in the shell of his ear.

Stealthily approaching the woman was not a simple task; the room she'd chosen was the site of a paper bomb. The area was nearly plastered in papers, handwritten notes, printed documents, glossy photos, and grainy black and whites. There were small stacks of books, reports, and periodicals that vaguely seemed to outline paths through the room. On the couch in the room was the woman, she had crumpled papers clutched in a hand and another pile was in the slow motion process of cascading off her onto the floor.

The squeals of delight he was going to draw out of her were going to occupy the rest of his day. The way her skirt rode up just above her knees, and how one house slipper had fallen off her toes made him want to bury himself inside her until the other fell to the floor. He was leaning in to begin his campaign when she turned on her side and sent a hidden tome crashing down onto his bare foot. His senses flared out on instinct when he felt the pain in his toes – a group was approaching the main entrance. On cue the buzzer sounded and the woman's mother moved to answer it. The chatter of the group drifted up into the room and he could hear it was for the woman. With his interest solidly on copulation not socialization he made his exit. The boy could always use some training.

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The television in the kitchen and the printed news were spewing more garbage then usual in the coming days. While Vegeta had never taken much of an interest in the planet before, occasionally it seemed like there was a lack of interesting reading material on hand and the news was the next best stop gap measure. He'd started to note a trend of sorts; the woman appearing in, or being mentioned by the infernal gossip pages with more frequency. He skipped over the bulk of most articles, skimming for mentions of the boy and him. He had a three-part concern to these printings; revealing his identity to the human public (annoying), being found out by the human government-military infrastructure (a headache), and finally having a trail for his pre-Namek life to follow to his front door (the worst of the three). There was also the discomfort he felt at strangers invading his personal sphere. The moon is also more prevalent in the stories being printed, it does not particularly interest him anymore then to note in passing that it reminds him most of his lost tail.

It's the last he thinks of any of this for some time as suddenly the house is overrun with talk about the boy's first anniversary marking a year alive. The concept is odd to him, but he doesn't argue the point. He does however assume that at some point the woman will turn to him and inquire about his own date of birth. The woman is off the compound, or tied up in meetings with endless guests more and more. She never inquires after his date, as they've continued to miss each other, or succeeding only to collide as one was arriving and the other leaving. With the woman away he is forced to socialize (provide the occasional grunt) to her parents when fetching or returning his son.

As much as he loathes the ooey gooey sweetness the elderly pair exudes he will privately concede that if the boy is to be spoiled thoroughly, the opposite of his own experiences, then that must have an emotional component. Vegeta fights with himself over how much of the coddling is excessive. He wishes the boy to grow up strong and capable, but not an emotional cripple. He decides that any rotting of the brain the woman does will be equated with the education he will receive in human foods. He has yet to see someone whose culinary skills matched up to the mother of his woman. As well she was liberal with feeding the boy a variety of foods with minimal mess, a feat not yet achieved by Bulma.

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The boy spends a handful of hours training with his father each day, two or three periods throughout the morning and afternoon. The child has become considerably more mobile and inquisitive of all the surroundings that were previously inaccessible. He has also started to tap into his heritage and has been experiencing growth spurts; sudden moments where his ki pathways line up perfectly with synapses directing muscles to contract. If the conditions were just right then one's muscles became infused with ki, enabling a type of super strength. The more mobile the boy became the more likely it was that his expanding ki pathways would create the perfect conditions for super strength. The boy learned to walk and toddle at pace with his human counterparts, but was developing early for a saiyajin child. Vegeta had no difficulty attributing it to the boy's bloodlines on his sire's side.

Today, the day prior to his anniversary of birth, he was once again back to wanting to sleep the day away. The whole time he sat on his bottom in a diaper and t-shirt rubbing his fists into his eyes. For Vegeta these were the most unpredictable of sessions, the boy's ki was jumping ferociously as was normal during these periods in a saiyajin's life. Today's surprise came when the boy hauled himself to his feet with a block toy in hand then stumbled over to his father before mercilessly slamming the pointed corner into a tender spot on the inside of his parent's knee. The child then sat down, clapped his hands and smiled at his achievement.

Trunks observed his father somberly from his seat. He liked looking at the man, but right now he wanted something one step further, direct contact affection. As his father approached and Trunks made the customary motion for 'pick me up'. When there was no response he made the babbling noises his mother liked to hear from him. With no action yet he called to his father until he got the word out right and his father peered at him as if to affirm that the boy hadn't just accidentally strung those sounds together. Trunks repeated the word again. He said it once more when his father got to his feet, and a final time when the man picked him up. His goal achieved, Trunks put his fist to his mouth and giggled at his father who held him at arms length between two hands.

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Bulma thought long and hard on how much she wanted little more then a hot shower, then some equally hot sex from the man she couldn't quite seem to pin down in the past few weeks. She'd been suffering through withdrawl of sorts, she'd gotten in so hot and heavy with him and the sudden lack of that interaction felt like a vacuum.

She was rushed off her feet between work, gravity room repairs, and her side project. The project was drawing a lot of attention to her as her participation seems to have been leaked out. The media was endlessly attempting to interview her, or corner her for photos and comments. Thankfully Vegeta's reputation preceded him and rarely would anyone attempt to come to their door.

The day would be over soon so the idea of napping to get enough energy to make it through the last portion of the evening; Trunks' birthday. It was decided long ago that they would celebrate at home, just the five of them. There would be food, it would start with fruit and vegetables and end with cake.

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While the party is ongoing Vegeta sits back and observes, he is neutral about almost everything. After the dishes are cleared away Bulma comes back to the table where he is helping her clean by finishing the last of the cake. She flops down on a chair she's pulled out.

"That was great." She smiles at him and he feels that funny little twitch in the bottom of his belly. He is ensnared by her, captivated as she pulls her chair closer, runs her palms up his thighs leans in. "Thank you. For staying." He enjoys the warmth from the friction of her movements and it's wet his appetite for more.

Underneath his thick mantle of control the beast-like tendencies rose up and for a moment he felt the creature within knock at the proverbial door, wanting to secret himself in as not to alarm his prey. It'd been weeks since he'd had her and all he desired was to press his nose into her hair, neck, and between her breasts and breathe her in until she saturates his senses. He wanted to run his hands up and down her back lightly until she flinched forwards into and into his arms. He'd be able to feel her pressed up against his chest, and…and…Bulma had left the room. Looking around he was alone in the room. He curses inwardly and stands up quickly to follow, unwilling to loose the opportunity.

On swift feet towards the stairs to follow he passes a sideboard with a stack of periodicals, the gossip kind. The cover had a photo of Bulma in a summer dress that had his loins protesting its lack of direct witness. Her photo was mirrored against that of a taller man. The publisher appeared to be comparing and contrasting the two having demarked the woman as the 'good' side and proclaimed her to have admiral qualities. He took note of the insinuation that she had something for 'bad men' and remembered the hideous pink shirt from years ago.

The woman's father is talking to her in the hall; he is passing her documents and a capsule case. Vegeta makes out the well wishes he bestows upon his daughter and then watches the man leave for his own rooms on the other side of the large dome. He uses the washroom quickly, only to be dismayed that Bulma has fallen fast asleep when he returns.

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He is awoken excessively early by his standards when her cell phone begins buzzing. Always a light sleeper to begin with, his system cannot tolerate the disruption and he is jarringly awake. Not even a growl rouses the woman to answer her phone; the noise and light both bothering him. The handset goes quiet and he listens to her breathing. When she doesn't stir he moves his body around hers until he is comfortable.

Earth technology is just as annoying and intrusive as the equivalent was in outer space. The phone was buzzing again, dancing its way towards the edge of the table. He'd been dozing when it'd interrupted the night for a second time. This time he is going to shut the stupid device off. The screen was lit up to show a box of lurid text, disgusting in that it was full of the human emotional platitudes that made his skin crawl. It was repulsive, this fawning message was turning his stomach. He gave up on shutting the thing off and instead turned it to silent mode and returned it face down to the bedside table. He dozed the rest of the way through night, having the occasional dream that he was going to be tortured in hell with false love and platitudes like the message on Bulma's phone.

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He was enjoying an unprecedented morning of sleeping-in when the woman practically jumped out of his arms in sudden jerky motions. "I'm late!"

The woman had disturbed the hot dream he'd been having about having fought and destroyed a powerful enemy and was in the midst of claiming his prize; a voluptuous Queen ripe for ravishing. His body had responded in kind to her leap away from him by releasing the hormones akin to adrenaline. They coursed through him waking him hard and instantaneously. Realizing it was just the woman waking in yet another odd manner he let himself settle back under the warm covers.

He could hear her cursing to herself under her breath in the washroom as she dressed. She was upset that her alarm hadn't woken her, and was blaming her decision to buy a competitor's product. Then she started arguing with herself about how she could just build a better one, but argued in return that she had no time for such things right now, but maybe after this week. He gave up listening and went downstairs in search of breakfast

In the kitchen the boy was feeding himself pieces of food from a plate while Grandma pointed out different people in a magazine she was reading to him.

"What are you teaching my son?" He asked, his voice still rough from sleep.

The older woman ignored him while she finished instructing the boy about the name of a man pictured. He noted with some distain that the man had been previous pictured with Bulma in another publication. He forgot about it when breakfast arrived. When he finished his meal the woman was babbling to the child again.

His ears did however perk at the mention of the moon. Seems the old woman was telling the boy about it and some silly rabbit and carrots that lived upon it. He tuned them out before he left the room after the mention that Trunks' mother was much too pretty to be a carrot or rabbit, but missing the remark about how maybe a cute bunny ail

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March 10, 2012

For the rest of that morning he'd been downright sour until she'd left. He'd stood inside the doorway of their bedroom, arms crossed, glowering. The woman ignored him; she was pinching a portable communicator between her shoulder and ear, hands full flipping through the closet selecting garments.

Eventually she pulled out a step stool, finished her call, then tossed the phone clear across the room from closet to bed. Hoisting herself up, she began to work out a large flat wooden box from a shelf above her head. When the box nearly slipped corner first towards her forehead. He was there quickly, levitating for height, a hand cupping the sharp corner close enough that his knuckles brushed her skin.

He directed the box in a slow fall to his other hand, bringing himself down with it in his hands. The woman was silent, mouth drawn, knowing she'd made an error in judging the box. Vegeta pushes it into her middle when she steps off the stool then departs the room still exhibiting the signs of contained fury.

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He is sitting on the couch with the boy when she shows herself downstairs. He heard her long before she arrived in the room, thumping down the stairs with over-packed bags. The woman's dame had planted the child on the furniture with him, and flitted out of the room without a word.

When the woman arrived in the room, calling to the boy to say 'goodbye'. He watched her laugh as the boy scowled when she pressed her lips to his pudgy cheeks. It would however never occur to him that her smile was for both of them, the younger mimicking the elder.

He hears her whisper words to the boy, and run her fingers through his hair. She is squatting at the edge of the couch to talk to him at his level. Her hands holding his smaller ones, she tells his son the same words she tells him when she puts the boy to bed; reassurances of her affections, and promises when they reunite.

In his palm she puts a folded piece of paper, then squeezes her fingers into hid hand once in a quiet gesture of affection. He lets it slide as the room is empty of others, and the boy is too young to comprehend. His chest rumbles with a rolling grunt of affirmation and a nod before she leaves, banging her suitcases as she goes. He heard her sniffle once before the door closed; she is such an emotionally attached woman.

That night he feels restless alone in bed, his body is holding him awake, anticipating something that does not come. His face unexpectedly grimaces when he moves; each shift of the blanket lets cold air underneath and kicks up the smell of the absentee. The morning rain makes the cold in the room dig deep into his joints; they ache still from the explosion when the air is damp.

He eats the next morning faithfully at the kitchen table, watching the boy out of the corner of his eye. The child spends more time pulverizing his food, with his chubby fists then eating it. To his chagrin he discovers that the boy has a penchant for cleanliness, and howls like his banshee mother when the act of crushing pushes mashed foodstuffs into his clenched hands thereby setting off his cries of displeasure. He is agast when he pushes his senses out to find he is still alone with his son. With no reason to prolong the destruction of his eardrums he interrupts his meal to clean the boy's hands. The child struggles, refusing to follow his father's directions, until the man pushes his own thumb between the clamped fingers.

The boy giggles at the swipes of the wet cloth, he is bashful and smiles his mother's smile each time he tries and fails to meet his father's eyes. He sees his older son in the small boy, the way he tilts his head in natural deference. His mother is showing through again when the boy abandons his meal and tries incessantly to climb into his father's lap.

Grunting his annoyance at the child who is forcing his meal to cool unnecessarily he puts his hand around the child's middle and adjusts him on his padded bottom in his lap to stop the fussing, With no one to witness the action, Trunks leaned into his father's chest and watched with wide eyes as his father leaned over him and inhaled the last of his meal.

Picking up the child by the back of his shirt he puts the boy on the floor then stands, and leaves the room. It takes only a moment for him to return, snatch up the boy again, and stalked out of the room, Trunks hanging from his shirt. Vegeta drops the boy on the couch turning on the television. He remembered once watching the woman entertain their offspring this way. The boy rocks in his place, legs kicked out in front of him, slapping his hands happily on his thighs, fixated on the television's nature program.

Vegeta cedes that he cannot train; there is still no replacement gravity room, and his head still bothers him on the odd occasion. Not that it was pertinent enough to mention, as well he was only just staying ahead of his exhausted state. Making sure to not let the lack of rest impact his complexion enough to make his bedmate whisper her fears in the dark then to tell him to his face. Her private fears spoken wormed its way into his sleep, unsettling him with her need to hold them back from saying it to his face.

The boy was no longer entertained by the television and had begun scooting himself across the cloth surface towards his sire, recognizing him, and making babbling noises the whole way. The child was not particularly mobile, however he was learning that the infant's grasp of mobility skills was growing. The brat shuffled himself until he could use his hands to grasp the back of the couch and pull himself up to stand then moved down until he could happily slap at his father's shoulder, pleased with the accomplishment. Vegeta lacked understanding and tolerance for the boy, and quickly lost his temper with his heir's antics.

The infant found himself held high, at eye level, forced to meet the dark eyes of his sire dangling suspended from the back of his shirt. With precise and heavily accented words father for the first time spoke to his son in his native language. The boy does nothing but stare with a lax jaw. Eventually his attention span wanes and the boy begins to kick out his limbs in frustration with his suspended position. Vegeta has come to realize now that he has no true understanding of what to do with the child, and curses at the boy's mother in his head.

The back door opens and closes, and he can hear giggling and the sound of an open hand contacting flesh, then a moan. Vegeta's senses tell him that it is the Doctor and his wife. He stands with the boy still held high and walks towards the kitchen, intent on passing the child off. Instead however he blanches and retreats when he finds the older couple engaged in kissing while the man multi-tasked, sliding a hand up the back of her strapless top. The alien and his son vacated the area with no particular destination in mind, just annoyance at being forced to endure more time with the infant. Grumpily he wandered away with the brat to avoid any first hand knowledge of the carnal activities of the elderly.

The boy crawled around the top of the bed in the Woman's room, finding a use for the excessive number of pillows she insisted on keeping around. The animalistic nature of his saiyajin blood tugged at the child until he crawled himself into the pile and begin and began to thrash and struggle to find a comfortable position. It took nothing from Vegeta to put his son into a deep sleep ringed with half crushed pillows, the infant did it all on his own.

With little else to do he picked up the tattered novel he'd been consuming, and set to loosing himself in the intricate plot. Books had intrigued him ever since he'd arrived; physical documents were not common in the portions of the universe he'd visited in his youth; technology ran supreme. He flipped pages casually until the dame knocked on the door looking for Trunks, twittering in her annoying way, and automatically he blocked out her chattering until he found her encroaching on his personal space, then sat up quickly, still wary of the woman. She babbled to him about a program on the television, and then about laundry, and then something else of no consequence to him. The boy woke and made whining noises and looked to his father during this exchange. When the man did not acknowledge him in the way he preferred he stepped up his noisemaking, sat up and grabbed at his socked toes.

The woman cooed at her grandson and motioned to Vegeta to pass the child to her. The elder only shrugged and continued to read. The child remained in the pillows stubbornly, like his parents, until one of the many words associated with food was spoken. Quick enough the boy was made pliant and with no words from his father to hold him back the kid silenced himself and began the long journey crawling towards his grandmother.

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Vegeta roamed the grounds restlessly thereafter until the smells of dinner hung in the air. He ate in silence ignoring the boy and the woman's parents. He was bored, his mind was wandering, so he felt the need to do something mindless – he turned on the television.

He was taken aback to see a familiar face, the woman's. She stood at a podium and spoke about media and science's role in its creation and delivery. A man came out to join her and they discussed presenting an award, Vegeta watched rather then listen after that. The man who stood with Bulma touched her, potentially innocuous, however it made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. She turned and smiled at the stranger, and together they exchanged light fluffy banter where she flashed her shiny white teeth. She opened an envelope and read out a name, he tuned out the next few minutes as the recipient arrived, spoke, then a commercial break ensued.

Compelled to keep watching by a sudden gnawing feeling in his heart, anger? No. Protectiveness? Certainly not! Something else, routed in something primal and aggressive, and it reminded him of the release fighting brought, the sharp focus, the endorphin rush of the pleasure of pursuit – competition.

When the focus of the television again returned to the woman she was once again chattering with the same man. The pads of his fingers pressed into the cushioned armrest heavily. Watching her flirt publicly with other males soured him until he was slouched down on the couch with his arms crossed, and face in a deep frown. He glowered at the television when the man touched her again, this time placing his open palm on her inner forearm before sweeping her closer to him with his other arm.

Vegeta leaned forwards in his seat as the pseudo-couple stood side by side to share a single voice amplification device, her bicep must have brushed his under her bright clothing. He'd never seen her dress in this fashion before; a long wrapped top held in position by a large bow that pulled tight around her midsection and ribs, it was all disgusting and lurid and made his upper lip curl. When the next commercial break came he left the room and stalked upstairs to change, training was in order.

Upstairs he pulled fresh shorts out of a drawer, and began to drag his sweats down his waist, over his hips, and down his thighs, until something in his pocket scratched at his leg. It was the folded piece of paper the Woman had pressed into his hand when she'd left, presumably to attend the filmed gathering transmitted to the house.

Cautiously he pushed his senses out to investigate his surroundings, alone, and so he raised the folded paper to his nose and gave it a quick and cautionary sniff. In the grain of the paper he could scent the ink, the infiltration of cigarette smoke, and the residual skin oils that mingled with it all – proof of her. The thin folded sheet smelt of something more than just her intent; it described secrets and whispered of further entanglements. A thumbnail flicked at one curled edge, the crease was well pressed, the whole sheet contoured to his leg. Shadows of the dark ink silhouetted on the back and he recognized the characters she used as his name, the tip of the pen had run over the lines many times, a thumb brush over the creases makes the feelings from before flare momentarily. The emotional sensations prod him to slide his finger between the compressed corners until invaded the folds until it opened for him to read.

He read and re-read her smeary ink scrawls, then sat on the edge of the bed for a long time before eventually concentrating to manifest his ki in a particular way that would turn the television on. Part of his mind flitted back to when he'd discovered this particular trick and used it to less then subtly hint that the volume was too high on this very television. Then he caught sight of the picture once more. The…the…touching was still going on, it'd in fact become worse and the feeling in his heart intensified. The corner of his mouth drew up in a sneer of disgust at the way he so casually handled the woman.

It took him a long time to drag his eyes away from her image, the collar of her dress was wide, balanced on the edge of her shoulders showcasing her collarbones and neck, and her hair was just above said exposed skin. The colour of her clothing could have been anything, his astute ability of perception was otherwise occupied, preventing him from taking in the scene as a whole. The letter crinkled in his palm when he squeezed it, which happened to align with the touches and nudges from the television man. Then her face was as large as the screen and her glossy lips and straight white teeth drew his focus, her lips were a bright rich red. Suddenly his blood was moving southward, and he could only intensify his observation of her plump red lips, the way her teeth clenched one corner when she was being coy in answering one of the man's questions, which too seemed to have become more tasteless in the time Vegeta had spent contemplating the note.

The audience collectively laughed when the man made motion to her assets and then cheekily slap and possibly pinch her behind. The feeling in his chest boiled over, he'd had enough of the media and it's foolish characters. This man had both overstepped his boundaries and done it in the public eye.

He found a pair of black pants hanging in the closet, and selected shoes and the strange underclothes called socks from a drawer. He found a sweater to dress in and made the television shut off. Surreptitiously he was out the door and took to the air. When he landed he was on the roof of a large covered gallery building. Inside he could detect large rows and balconies of seated viewers, individuals in other smaller clusters throughout and around the building, as well as the Woman.

There was little challenge in entering the building and descending to a lower level to get access. The ground floor was busy, full of people and Vegeta's least favorite type of human annoyances; the media. He stood off to the side, while waiting for clues as to how one would arrive into the auditorium. In his peripherals he heard someone discuss the woman's attire for the evening; something about it made the reporter ooh and ahh, giggle, and make some reference the woman's last media appearances; the supposed scandal her unwed pregnancy had caused. He snorted through his nose as if to clear a bad smell and moved on from the room.

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There was no challenge for him to dodge a security checkpoint and slip into staff access hallways. A pair of guards blocked the last entryway, a doorway with a large television displaying live feed above, they made eye contact with him the moment they realized that he was striding towards them. The pair bulked up, standing straighter and one moved to intercept. The Prince did little more then remove his hands from his pants pockets, dispelling the casual image he was depicting in his black slacks and a three quarter length v-neck sweater.

"Pass?" One man asked. Vegeta shook his head and continued to advance towards the stairs that led up and past the bouncers. The second man put his hand out to halt the Prince and was, by Vegeta's standards, casually rebuffed. The two rounded on the smaller man, "time to go." One said as he reached again to escort the visitor away from the stage entrance. The Prince just shook his head and pointed to the woman on the screen. When both men turned to look the smaller man engaged a fraction of his speed and stepped passed them and up the stairs into the darkened backstage area.

Deftly Vegeta navigated through the dimmed stage until he came to the threshold where the bright lights of the theater met the darkness of backstage. He watched, arms crossed over his chest as his eyes rested on the man presenting alongside the woman. As the man walked off stage the woman began to speak. In his crisp suit the man appeared impressive, however any exterior pretenses were dissolved when Vegeta stepped in front of the man departing from the stage. In the background he could feel the two guards searching for him in the darkened back area.

The suited man collided with Vegeta's shoulder, and stumbled momentarily, enough time for the dethroned prince to turn his head and quietly articulate his wishes about the forthcoming end of the man's touching of the woman. When the presenter straightens he looks down on the man in a sweater and makes a wise-ass remark about both the woman and his hair. He snickered about Vegeta's chances with a woman like her before pushing past and vanishing elsewhere.

Security arrives at the end of the exchange and they moved in to remove the interloper from the area in silence. The well-dressed man pushed back past Vegeta and the guards who were engaging in a stare down as the lady of the hour herself exited the stage to resounding applause. She did little more than stop and stare shrewdly at the man in the suit before turning to look at Vegeta.

"You came?" She smiled at him, this was wholly unexpected; she was a bit panicked at his appearance. It was unusual for him to leave the compound; he hated humans and thus avoided populated areas. The security guards backed off to avoid creating a scene

"I am leaving." Vegeta declares while looking past Bulma at the handsy man. He did just as he said, turned on his heel and marched off in the darkness

The derogatory retort comes out of Bulma's co-host in a whisper; "ooh, tough guy."

Bulma raised a brow at him. "He _will_ leave you a smudge on the wall." She warned as she plastered her best smile on her face and stepped out into the light.

The show came to an end. The cameras rolled away, some of the audience moved onto their next parties. The rest stayed to mingle with the cast and award winners. Bulma had a perfunctory glass of alcohol or two before wanting to leave. She missed her son, but more pressing, she was nearly dying to know what had brought Vegeta out of the compound.

Up far past her usual bedtime she yawned and realized it was only a handful of hours until dawn, time had slipped past her. It was a sign to say her goodbyes and move on. It was nice to come out, dress up and party for a little while, but this wasn't her lifestyle so much anymore. Her kimono was lovely; the silk of her gown, a pearlescent cream, the obi black, with accents in blue. Her hairstyle was overly elaborate, and quite tall. She escaped quickly to her hotel, thinking only that the faster she slept, the sooner she went home.

He was on her balcony with his back to her when she entered. With the slope of his shoulders relaxed she was further perplexed. He knew she was there, making it pointless to call to him.

They stood abreast in the cold for a few moments before she went back inside to the warmth and heat. She was pulling out the elaborate headpiece jewelry from her hair until it fell loose around her face. She was in the process of removing the long swaths of imitation hair that had been carefully added to her head as part of her long afternoon in make-up. He had finished whatever it was he was doing when she approached the balcony doors again.

He met her at the threshold and held her at arms length with his hands on her hips. He was taking in the intricate pattern of the silk brocade dress she was wearing. The wide off the shoulder opening excited him, he'd liked the way her collar bones had been highlighted in lighting, the way the shadows had fallen on her tastefully disguised clevage sent thrilling twitches through the tips of his fingers. He wanted to pull the free ends of the large ornate bow at her back, then unwrap the two layers of silk he could see she was wrapped in. He'd learned long ago that dressing up in the Brief's household often meant there was an extra bonus beneath the fancy clothing. He'd been the direct beneficiary of it a handful of times in his life before.

He dropped his hands from her and shoved them into his pockets. Inadvertently she wanted to swoon. The loose v-nick sweater was cut exceptionally flatteringly for him, and the casual look to him with his hands hidden was very attractive. From one he produced a folded paper, which he held up between them. When she took it, he stepped way and sat down into a low, wide leather chair nearby.

Carefully she unfolded the paper and noted it was warm from his pocket. She wanted to faint when she saw its contents. The heavily lined marks that make up his name is the most prominent part of the paper. He snatches her into his lap before she can open her mouth. He has a finger pressed over her lips when she looks at him.

"Is it true?" The question is an intimate one. He pulls the paper back from her and one handedly folds it back up and secrets it away.

"Yes, very." She dips her head in a nod and blushes, not quite able to look him in the eye. Instead she fixates on the perfect cupid's bow above his lip. He has warm soft lips. She wants to lavish on them with her own. Her body has missed his. The sudden rise and crescendo of sex in her life had made its sudden disappearance that much harder to bear. As such, her body betrays her quickly and easily. She has settled herself in his lap in such a way that she has a modicum of control in her dominant position.

He tugs at the bow and smirks when it comes loose from its knot with some effort. He tosses it behind them and works his hands up and over her shoulders to the bare skin of her upper chest. He smoothes a hand up one of her legs, feeling the soft texture of the odd ninjen invention of stockings. Upwards over her knee and to middle of her thigh her went. His fingers found amusement in the novel texture at the top of the nylons and were content to squeeze, circle, and pet the soft skin all around them.

They played at biting, licking and nipping at each others' lips until their odd petting ritual was no longer enough. He stood her on the low bed and worked at pulling open the hidden ties to the outer robe. It fluttered slowly to the ground and he noted that the inner robe was patterned with silken embroidered tableaus. Momentarily distracted he opened the ties then slowly directed her to turn around and hold out her arms. It gave him a better view of the whole cloth.

Quickly he recognized some of the scenes as erotic ones from one of the books he'd read. He spun her quickly and found her wrapped up again with a smile tugging at her lips. He raised a brow at her playful expression, and worked his hands over hers until she opened it up and held the edges wide from her body. She was lost the moment he saw what had been concealed beneath. He ran his hands around her until he came back to the tops of her stockings. The pair successfully mimicked each of the panels that depicted the fictional couple's passionate reunion until they fell asleep in exhaustion.

In the light of the morning sun Bulma answered the door with the extravagant room service breakfast wrapped in the same inner cloak. She stood at the end of the bed and watched him watching her. Eventually she blushed and began to babble. Focusing on telling him about how she'd once heard about a fabled kimono that'd been made by four of the greatest kimono makers of the age. They'd looked to the moon for inspiration and created a treasure considered to be so great it was immediately considered a sacred item. It was elevated to a holy item after all three of the virgin Queens who were married in it bore male heirs. She confessed that one morning a few years ago she'd left the house and traveled to a nearby city, one not as large and opulent as West City, but one that housed a grand museum. In the museum, a converted and preserved palace, was artifacts of past eras.

Vegeta reclined in the pile of pillows, Bulma was highlighted by the rising morning sun. Her blue hair glowed and the silver of her robe caught the light shadowing her front side. He couldn't see her blush, but he could read her body language a nd see her anxiousness as the silence between them. While he was able to easily settle into the silence, she felt compelled to fill it with chatter and sound. She drank an orange juice laced with fizzy alcohol, and began the smooth her hands up and down herself. Picking back up her earlier story, she continued.

She talked about how she was selected to be the model for the kimono's anniversary of its making. As she talked her hands ran over her body. She told him how she'd be dressed in the royal garb, been painted and photographed, and then how she'd participated in a ceremony to honor its perceived powers. Finally she pulled gently at the sash, loosening the wrap of the robe. Fingers scurried under the soft silk to cup her own breasts and to run her hands down over her belly. Vegeta watched, aroused by the erotic nature of her movements. Then the story continued; she'd felt a hint naughty and at the urging of the photographer they took a single film of private photos with the kimono. The original film was promptly presented to Bulma who returned home.

She crawled on her hands and knees towards him, and he was soon able to make out the depths between her breasts as she sauntered up to him unawares of the breathtaking image she presented. In his lap she ended up, her naked center pressed into his belly, trapping his erection between them.

Breakfast was consumed cold.

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They redressed and Bulma packed up her bags. Vegeta stood near the door of the suite watching her drink down the last of her cold coffee. With nothing to carry except the large wooden box, slung over her shoulder on its silk strap, they walked to the elevator. In the metal box they stood quietly as there were others along for the ride. One man looked them over enough times for Vegeta to feel his eyes on his back.

Oddly he sat next to Bulma in her plane as she started it up. He'd never traveled with her before in it. The smell of her feminine scent easily filled up the small sitting space of the machine. It was prolific; in his clothes, and on his skin. He fell into a daze with it filling his nose and on the tip of his tongue watching the blue sky slide by.

When the Woman opened the door to the house after their arrival his gustatory senses swooned at the fragrances in the air; meat roasting in its own juices and seasonings, fresh baked onion cakes and fruit pies cooling on the counter top. As the pair moved through the kitchen her mother appeared as if endowed with super speed. The woman strangely did not attempt to waylay her daughter with chatter, but instead ignored the pair to continue a phone conversation she was having.

As they passed up to the second floor his sensitive hearing picked up one last comment from the buxom blond. "Another grandchild maybe."


	9. Chapter 9

a/n: For starters thank you all very much for all the reviews, favorites and feedback. I appreciate each and every one. So a few themes I'm seeing; I need to proof-read and edit before posting more, and I need to bring the story line more into the present, and less in the heads of the characters. I am also thrilled that the sensuality and "odd" points of focus are appreciated. Thank you!

This chapter essentially picks up just after the last one and I'll try to resolve some of the questions left in the comments.

**Chapter 9**

Hoping lightly on a low stool Bulma worked some clean clothing into place in the tall closet. The smell of dinner is beginning to enter the room. Laundry is an unending chore, tedious and monotonous as well. But for once it was giving her an opportunity to think.

Vegeta had very uncharacteristically arrived at her work function. It'd taken all her composure not to rush off stage and intervene between her co-host, and her … what exactly was he anyways? It didn't matter; he would be as he'd always been to her, Vegeta. There was no other way to describe him, or to make her internal feelings materialize into some sort of tangible description.

Although, there was something to be said for his deviation from his norm, it was almost like he'd been marking his territory. She knew though, it was about the note; the one that'd made its way into his pocket, instead of the one with her contact information she'd intended. After the battles between the Androids and Cell had come and gone she'd started sitting at her desk, and her mind would drift.

When he came back from the battlefield he was not the same man she'd last seen cocky and arrogant, assured in himself. The candor was gone, the conceit vanished; he was withdrawn, bitter and angry. It hurt her to think that fledgling relationship she had with him was in such a sudden and real flux. While she was supposed to be upgrading and stocking the ship he'd used before, she was sitting at her desk trying to get her head on straight. With one of the many pens on her desk she let her hand absently trace characters into a blank pad of paper. For the first few days she'd just traced her pen in the tracts of shiny ink that already made up Vegeta's name. It was just something to do.

Since she could not keep her mind away from him, it was almost logical that she indulge in thoughts of him. So she forced herself to reason some of it out and write it on the small little pad of white paper. On the day he left, vanishing, she wrote the last lines, giving herself a small sense of closure. When all was said and done the page was creased from the repetitive tracing and smudged from her having touched it so many times.

Eventually she'd needed the pad for something else and the page had been flipped, the scrawled paper, which read as a letter, was temporarily forgotten about when the alien man had departed from the grounds. Her child had seen to that. In her packing rush for the show she must have somehow grabbed it instead of the page with her accommodations and contact information. If she was honest the outcome hadn't been that bad, and the sex was exceptional. She'd felt more intimate with him then she'd nearly ever felt in all their past encounters. Thinking back on it made butterflies flit in her belly.

Freshly showered Vegeta emerged from the adjoining bath. The towel around his waist was slung low, deep enough that she was tempted to ruin all his hard work getting clean. He sat nude on the bed and used the towel to dry his hair. To avoid distraction she moved into the closet to find something more comfortable to wear for the rest of the afternoon. She emerged dressed in a blue sundress. Vegeta had also begun to dress, having pulled on loose shorts that came to his knees.

As she pulled a brush through her hair she felt like she was being watched. Mid-stroke she turned and he was indeed watching her. He came up behind her, pressing his bare chest to her near-bare back. His hands started at her shoulders, then rounded them for her clavicles and the slope of her chest. Then down around her breasts over her ribs and to the front, down her abdomen to her belly button.

A nibble and the scrape of teeth on her juncture of her neck and shoulder make her watch them in the mirror. Her somewhat startled face, and his heavy-lidded one reflected back to them. He rubbed his palms over her body a few more times, then disengaged himself and returned to the closet to finish dressing.

"Hey!" She accused. "What was that about?"

He pulled a black muscle shirt over his head.

"Well?" Bulma prompted, hands on her hips.

"The boy is crying" He responded casually before stuffing his hands in his pockets and sauntering out of the room. The wail over the monitor stopped her from following, but she knew his destination and it was pointless to try and force him to answer something he didn't want to.

Her mother was twittering to her father who was flipping through printed papers. They both paused to greet their daughter and grandson. Her father stood to embrace her.

"You did well last night." He commented.

"My little girl, so pretty, and on the television!" Her mother chimed in. "Trunksie was so happy to see you on the big screen. Even Vegeta got all excited over it. He shot out of here so quickly…" The elder woman trailed off.

"Mhhm." She nodded as she sat her son on her lap to eat breakfast.

"Mr. Yotoshimoto was quite bold last night." Her mother started in as she put pieces of fruit in the child's hands.

The boy's father sat down, without a word he began to fill himself with the home cooked extravagant meal on the table. Given the speed at which he consumed his meal it appeared as if he was ignoring the table conversation when in fact he was not.

"He made me really uncomfortable Mom." Bulma countered. "Every time we'd leave the stage he'd run off, sometimes barely making it back in time. The way he looked at me was just plain wrong."

A grunt-gaffaw was heard simultaneously as Vegeta reached forwards and pulled a large roasted bird towards his plate. No one commented afterwards instead, eating their meal in the quiet of clanking dishware.

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There was a chilly afternoon a few weeks later that Bulma arrived home and the house was completely empty. When she'd left her son was inside the recently rebuilt Gravity Room with his father and her parents were preparing for an afternoon outing. To her knowledge Vegeta had rarely, if ever, left the compound for any purpose that was not training. Had he possibly taken their son somewhere outdoors to train? Not particularly worried, just missing her son, and partially hoping for a quick moment alone with Vegeta, she went to her office to work.

When she returned to her room to wash up and begin making dinner Vegeta was just exiting the bathroom. Trunks, gnawing on one of the pillow corners on the bed, was asleep. While Vegeta would or could, never be a typical parent given his atypical upbringing, unique heritage non-withstanding, he still seemed to have some semblance of an idea on what to do.

Since she'd shown him the marks Trunks' had left on her body Vegeta had done an exceptional job in her opinion with training their child. As well her little boy adored his father, and had an innate connection with him that seemed to transcend Trunk's human side. With a look the boy could move from an outright tantrum to a silent well behaved child. It was as if the emotional boundaries the boy's father set for his world also made sense in his. It marveled Bulma that her son was so aware at such a young age. Mindlessly she gathered the dirty laundry from the room, and with a child on one hip and a basket on the other she left Vegeta to dress.

While Trunks played at repeatedly tipping the full laundry basket over Bulma began sorting the laundry. There were bills and loose change in one of the pockets of Vegeta's pants. Odd, he rarely left the compound, and she'd never before seen him with money that wasn't a crisp bill she'd given him. After the machine began chugging she gathered the money to return it, amongst the bills were receipts; food, and to a museum, her breath caught, halfway around the planet, and the ticket read as admission for two. Had Vegeta taken their son out? To a museum so far from home? By themselves? In public? He surprised her, and now she was curious, oh so curious.

As she put painted racks of ribs in barbeque sauce and put them on the hot grill to begin cooking, Bulma ran scenarios in her head about why they'd gone where they had. She had to know, what was there that drew them? She decided she would begin researching after dinner, and perhaps after she'd attempted at least once to pry the reason out of the tight lipped man.

Trunks' grandparents came in the door, his Grandmother bearing baked goods from down the street. The small boy smiled and pulled himself upright and began to alternate between standing and falling to make a path to the newcomers. Once at their feet, he sat down heavily, babbling, he began to play with the laces and straps on their shoes. With a pop one of the thin laces of his grandfather's shoes snapped and immediately the boy pushed the free end into his mouth and began sucking on it.

"Eww, Trunks! Spit that out right now!" His mother demanded.

Trunks thought it was hilarious and clapped his hands, chewing more readily.

"Trunks, spit it out now." She said picking up the boy and hardening her tone.

"Bwahwha ah ah." He replied and shook his head from side to side.

When his mother tried to force her fingers into his mouth to retrieve the contraband he clamped his mouth shut and began to whine loudly.

"Enough brat." Vegeta's gravelly voice cut clearly through the noises of the three adults and squirming child. Immediately Trunks stopped and spit out the wet lace into his mother's proffered hand. His blue eyes looked past his mother and directly to his father as if waiting for his next instructions. The older man was already leaving the room.

For background noise Bulma turned on the television, but it was her mother that switched the channel. As the younger woman carried some rattling dishware to the table she could hear Trunks.

"Dddaahh ddaah!" A giggle. "Dddaaah Dddaaahh!" Another giggle.

"Trunks, honey, your father isn't here." Bulma replied without turning around while placing out the dinnerware.

"…adorable little boy of Bulma Briefs and this man, pictured here." Came the foreign voice of the television correspondent. The last of the plates clattered on the table as the woman rushed to see the screen. Her mouth dropped open a bit as her jaw went slack. There in high definition video was Vegeta and Trunks. They walked to the ticket booth, Trunks sitting in his father's arms, hands clenching at the dark sweater for support and head swiveling to look around. There is a cut scene, and now the quality of the video decreases slightly, but the purple and upwards styled hair of the two were easily recognizable in the distance. The video ends and the screen begins to scroll through candid shots of the pair; One in front of a display of ancient weapons and armor, the next at the feet of a tall brown skeleton. To Bulma it appeared as if Vegeta was pointing out the vital organs, and she imagined him explaining to her son how this knowledge related back to fighting. The idea made her smile.

Eventually it appeared as if a photographer had followed the pair their entire visit. And Vegeta had let this happen? She narrowed her eyes and kept watching suddenly suspicious about the whole thing. If he could hear electronic hum of a digital camera in her noisy lab, and demanded that she turn it off while they engaged in a hot session of sex, distracted by her body, then he would definitely know if someone was photographing him even from a distance. It was impossible; Vegeta was just too paranoid to have not readily and knowingly allowed this. The photos were cute though.

The next scenes took her breath away. There was a shot from behind and above, one of Trunks' small arms was looped partly behind his father's neck, the other pointed forwards. If she blurred her eyes slightly she could place the colors and the shape behind her two men. It was the kimono she'd worn for it's anniversary. The photographer then followed the pair further as they visited a street food vendor, a bookshop, and then another food shop. The voice over finished up her story commenting on Vegeta's good looks and finally closing with questions about their marital status and how he'd escaped the media's eye before now. With a grin on her face and an extra flutter in her heart and belly Bulma finished preparing for dinner.

The meal vanished quickly and everyone went their separate ways. Afterwards Bulma followed Vegeta upstairs, she wanted to question him about the tickets. He was opening and closing drawers in the bathroom. Immediately she went to one of the furthest drawers and pulled out a new package of dental floss and passed it to him. Of all the strange items and devices Earth had introduced him to floss seemed to be his favorite. It was hard to fault good hygiene she never asked, just dutifully purchased package after package.

As she ran the water to bathe Trunks she stripped the boy on their bed tickling him as she went. On the nightstand was a brand new stack of books, the spines each aligned perfectly with the title beneath it. Interesting reading was all she could muster as she skimmed the titles; the bath was waiting. Quickly she pulled off her own clothes until she was only in her underwear. On her knees she washed and played with the boy over the side of the tub, somewhat lost as she washed him, reflecting on how much he must have seen today. He'd always been an inquisitive child, and she knew he got squirmy and wiggled when he could not immediately gratify his curiosity.

"Dddaahh ddaah!" The boy grasped one of his floating toys then cocked his arm back and released the would-be projectile. His release was off and the toy bounced off the ledge of the bath and back towards him, making solid contact with his forehead. Bulma bit her tongue and struggled to keep a straight face at what she'd just seen. Her son found no humor in it and scowled, pouting. The bath finished, it was time for bed.

Tucked in a towel Bulma brought her son out of the warm bathroom. She was cooing to him and he was fussing quietly. The closer the pair got the easier it was for Vegeta to see; his son was attempting to feed from his mother, and she was trying to convince him otherwise. A couple of months ago she'd have raised an eyebrow at his hanging around after dinner, but lately she'd noticed that he'd adjusted his schedule.

Bulma sat at the foot of the bed and reached behind herself to unsnap her bra. She held it ahead of herself and kept her back to the man on the bed, as if to hide herself. The boy gave up his whining for his prize and he settled himself in his favorite place on her lap.

"Found new books did you?" She smiled at Vegeta over her shoulder.

Leaning up against the headboard he looked up at her from his thick hard cover book and nodded after holding her gaze for a moment too long. He did that often, keep their eyes on each other for long periods of time, she knew not many could hold his stare and it often made the heat rise in her cheeks or on her chest.

"Can I read the one on top when you're done?" Another nod.

He went back to the large and heavy book when the boy fussed, but he kept listening. He learned that she was in fact weaning the boy completely off her milk. He wondered what the boy was thinking as his blue eyes watched him, holding onto his mother possessively as he ate a second dinner. For the boy it was over too soon and he was back to fussing. His mother cooed to him some more, there was nothing left for the child. They stayed in silence as she let their son fall asleep in her lap.

In her robe she came back to the room and abandoned it on her way to take her own shower. Emerging in a towel she is surprised to see the slackness of his face, the softness in the skin around his eyes, and slight part to his lips. As she approached the bed to see what'd caused this the book was closed and placed on the nightstand at the bottom of the stack.

"I would have never thought you to be a reader." She confessed as she opened her drawers for fresh clothing. He raised a brow at her and watched as she let the loosened towel fall to the ground. He made a noise and beckoned her over when she moved to put on underclothes, with a soft tug at her arm he had her crawling naked onto the bed. There were a few beads of water clinging to her shoulders, her dark hair hung damply around her face highlighting her bright clear skin and pink lips.

His hands ghosted up her bare back as he left open mouth kisses on the slopes of her shoulders. It was effortless for him to adjust his hands beneath her and swing her to a position on her back. Smoothing a warm palm up and down her thigh and tight backside he hitched one leg over his hip, letting her use it to grind herself into his pelvis. He half laid his weight on her to free up a hand, which he used to stroke at the soft skin of her face; her cheek, her eyelids, her lips.

Later when she laid panting next to his deep even breaths she watched his profile in the dim light. He was a beautiful man, and in the last little while she'd started to let go of the idea that he would leave again. While the conception of their son had seemed like a chanced meeting of the two, the longer she spent interacting with Vegeta, the more she realized that something tangible had drawn them together. There was a casual laziness in the air, everything felt comfortable and sedate.

"Was the birth difficult?"

She didn't quite know what to make of his question. Yes, three days of labor had been tough. Even if she'd denied it was happening for the first while. So she flipped over to her belly and looked up at him. "He made it here didn't he?" She replied. "Why so curious."

"You didn't answer."

"Its birth, it's supposed to hurt."

He was quiet after that so she tentatively set her head on his shoulder and watched his chest move. They didn't talk about it again that night.

In the morning chill. "I miss the pregnancy sex sometimes." She whispered knowing he was awake already. If he ever remained in bed until she awoke it was either sex or injury.

If she'd been watching she would have seen the slight tug upwards at the corners of his mouth, a subtle smirk. He too could remember it and the mental note he'd left himself about how enjoyable the frequent couplings could be.

"You didn't answer." She added, "but, I wouldn't mind have another baby with you. Not now, Trunks is enough."

Vegeta had no comment. He hadn't been there for the birth of his son. He'd watched the woman start the process, but had sequestered himself when the appointed hour arrived. Lately with the media having focused on her family situation and the boy, questions had been waking and distracting him. Something in him was changing, and it'd started with that note. Since that moment he'd begun to notice small changes in his relationship with the woman.

She touched him more now then before. Little things, brushes of leg under the table during meals, the brush of her fingers through the hair behind her ears when she grabs his head to press her own kisses onto his face. Its in the moments that she draws out before sex, telling him she is teaching him patience. This morning as she used the sheets to cleverly hide herself, extending each press of the lips, and touch until the sexual tension had risen in anticipation.

As an alien both literally and figuratively, human intimacy was proving to be a river far wider and deeper then he'd ever expected. Furthermore he was unsure how much he'd experienced. He came to realize that what he was facing was not a Human-Alien miss-communication, but a Man-Woman one, something well documented on Earth. All he'd wanted to know was if his heir had done any lasting harm to the woman. He'd, unintentionally and unwillingly, heard much in media about how quickly she'd regained her 'pre-pregnancy body'. Somehow her feminine brain had rephrased the question, and in her reply she'd insinuated about wanting more brats. One was enough.

On the occasional afternoon Vegeta would find a quiet moment in their room. Cracking open the large book he'd flipped the thick colourful pages until he found the spread he'd bought the book for. It was a spread about the kimono, it's historical significance and a listing of the famous figures who'd crossed paths with it. The photos were focused on the exquisite kimono, but it was the blur of blue hair and the soft lines of a pale neck that drew him in. As he took in each shot he appreciated the elegant beauty in her poise and form; she a stunning woman.

A couple of days after his trip to the museum Bunny had unearthed a thick brown envelope which she'd left on the small table-desk in their room. It was filled with original prints from the photo session along with some promotional items. At the very back of the package was another envelope and a canister. The risqué photos the woman had described to him stared back at him. There was nothing tasteless about them he found. Instead they were erotic, hot, and arousing.

She stood tall, bold, and elegantly in dark underwear edged in wide lace. The front of the kimono was held open by one hand on her hip; the other was reaching forwards towards the camera. Her breasts were pert and rounded on her chest, nipples tight and rosey. Her red lips were pursed ever so slightly, painted a shade that drew his eyes in.

In a second shot she was walking as the robe was sliding off her arms. She was nude and the clever lead of her leg tastefully made the photo what it was. The motion of her legs, the tightening of the muscles in her calf and thigh made him wish to run his hands up the real ones. Frozen forever midstride he lusted over the lines of her body, the fullness of her chest, and the determined look on her face.

One of the final photos in the set was of her holding the silk to her chest while looking over her shoulder. It focused on the long curve of her spine and the shape of her ribs and waist. She sat on nothing but a low lacquered dark stool in underwear that was made up of nothing more then wide crossing silk ribbons, the setup highlighted the contrast between her bright skin and the dark colours of the kimono. He recognized the undergarment she wore in the photo, he'd picked up and incinerated the pieces of those very underwear the morning after he'd slept with the woman for the first time.

From the pile he removed three of the erotic prints and slipped them into the pages of the large book. Afterwards he laid back on the soft mattress and reflected on that particular day. She'd come into the house from the backdoor with a new hairstyle, and bounce in her step. He was at the kitchen table finishing off his meal debating on how to train since his new Gravity Room had seized up. Furious at what he'd termed a design flaw he stalked up the stairs to unleash his displeasure at the designer.

Readily she'd engaged him, but her heart hadn't seemed to be in it. Everything appeared to take a sexual slant. For months he had ignored the sexual tension between them, denying that he took each and every opportunity to glance, watch, and take in the woman who'd explicitly prohibited him from being attracted to her. Sometime that same day he'd come to realize that what she'd actually done by warning him about her beauty on his first post-Namek day on Earth was to set a trap. It was a clever trap, by telling him no, she was telling him yes, or at least that was how his subconscious had justified it just long enough for him act on the sexual feelings he'd developed.

They kept exchanging verbal potshots as she moved off into her closet to change. From where he stood he was generously aligned with a mirror reflection depicting the inside of her closet. Wherein she was pulling up the dress she wore, exposing those same panties he would later see in photos, and burn away as incriminating evidence.

Now lying in the bed they shared he thought back to the museum. The boy had made his first reference to his mother all day. Although when he spoke about his father his speech emphasis was on the d in 'Dada', but with his mother it was on the a, as such it came out 'AmAma'. The boy had adamantly pointed to the robe and repeated himself until his father had quieted him.

Back on his plush bed he cupped his hands behind his head in reflection. Yes, no more children, Trunks was sufficient. Now where was that woman of his, he wondered if she was still as flexible as she'd been at their first encounter, when they'd conceived the boy. He could feel her ki approaching the room, it seemed he would get to find out.


	10. Chapter 10

a/n: Sorry, didn't mean to give the impression that the story was over. I just wanted to say that I have no specific plans for the story, but I do kind of like it, so I will continue it as long as I have ideas I suppose.

I'm kind of lost lately, I'm not sure what to do. Daily I open notebooks and programs to write, and like a dried old spigot, nothing flows. I'm trying, although I am at a loss how to recapture the momentum and imagination I'd started this with. Wish me luck that I regain my focus, and soon.

Chapter 10

Vegeta scowled at the television as he swallowed another spoonful of breakfast. The museum visit had only upped the level of personal chaos in his life. The photographer he'd ignored had unleashed a maelstrom of who knows what when the images had been released. He'd originally hoped for a single shot, just enough to deter other men from attempting to move in on the woman he was calling his. Instead the proverbial pendulum had swung too far the other way, he himself was now the center of the media focus. For a third week running now he'd been a popular subject in the local and international gossip pages.

It hadn't been all that insufferable, the photos had garnered a more ardent response from Bulma then when she'd caught him training the boy the first time. He slept a happy man each night, finding more new experiences with the blue haired woman. It only helped that with each report on the images his ego was stroked with unexpected flattering.

The story had only taken off when an anonymous source had declared him to be a long-time resident of Capsule Corp. and to be involved in many of the top secret projects that went on under the private roof of the Briefs family. From there it seemed to be a story that wouldn't die, continually popping up until he was tired of seeing himself and the boy in print. It was no longer a deterrent for other males as much as it was a beacon for females and an invitation to the media to inquire further into his relationship with the woman and the boy.

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One morning when the only person at the breakfast table was himself Mrs Briefs pushed a thick piece of paper across the tabletop to him, it was face down and one edge was perforated.

"I found this while I was cleaning. I suppose it just never got filed with the city." She giggled and smiled in that way of hers before walking off.

He flipped the document and read its face. Certificate of the Magistrate, Proof of Marriage it proclaimed in fancy script. There were two spaces for signatures, the space for a witness signature already filled with a bubbly signature full of rounded letters. He stared at it for a long time, memorizing the lettering and placement of the text. The parchment was dated almost 2 years prior.

Licking jam off his thumb he found a pen on the countertop. On one of the proclaimed lines he carefully put nib to paper and slowly stroked the lines to spell his name. When he laid down the pen he was surprised to see that his palms were sweating. Looking it over he felt weighted down, this was not something to undertake lightly. He and the paper vanished from the kitchen.

Quietly, even if he could not hear over his own beating heart, he moved along to the woman's messy lab. On her desk and into a pile of papers he slipped the certificate. He scrawled a few notes on some revised prints for bots before vacating the room. Successfully having hidden the document in the last place the woman would discover it, he congratulated himself on his cleverness while he pondered his next steps.

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It was a Tuesday morning and Vegeta was bringing the boy inside from the Gravity Room. They'd travelled through the rain to enter the house, and now were both sporting clinging fat droplets of water. It'd take the boy a fair bit of time to walk all the way to the back door. As predicted the Woman and her dame flitted over, endlessly concerned over the boy's health and wellbeing. The child was far too coddled to get sick, yet the idea that he _could_ become ill was enough to send the pair into a nattering mess. As they fawned and worried over the infant Vegeta sat himself down to eat. The boy sat in his mother's lap to his chagrin.

The corner of the Prince's lip turned up slightly when she began feeding him by hand. The endless cooing and butchered language called 'baby talk' was infuriating. The boy would not develop properly without the right guidance. As he cleaned off his stacked fork and chewed he thought to himself how favourable for the boy it was that he'd graciously stayed on this puny planet.

"Stop that!" He snapped, the simpering grated on his nerves. The boy had been stubborn like his mother today, holding his arms on his hips like her and saying "no" to everything. The child had a rebellious streak.

He got her attention alright, along with a sharp glare and narrowed eyes. He never barked at her like this, at least not unless he was purposefully provoking her over her work or his training. This to Bulma did not have the same feel.

"Stop what?" She questioned evenly and continued to pass carrots and vegetables to Trunks' waiting mouth. Vegeta's pupils are dilated and his jaw is firm as he clenches his teeth.

"Feeding him." He sucks in a breath, "coddling." He says it with some finality. The boy shouldn't be rewarded with special attention for being difficult all morning.

Bulma looks down to the boy in her lap, she enjoys her time with him, the close relationship they have. It makes her feel wonderful as a mother most times when her boy asks for her, or succeeds at a task while in her care. Trunks is fine in her lap she decides, besides she won't be able to sit like this with him for long. She was going to enjoy it. "No." She says firmly.

"He is learning to be weak and defiant."

"Trunks won't be my baby for long. He's already speaking!" She reminded him of the boy's small, but growing vocabulary.

Neither notice that as they argue that Trunks was pulling a tray of bright red cherry tomatoes and a bowl of gravy to the edge of the table.

"Let the boy feed himself." He was being careful, hoping to gradually convince the woman to release the emotional hold she had on the boy. While his ultimate desire was for the boy to sit on his own and feed himself, this was not a battle that could be won by argument.

"Here Trunskie, eat this." She held a softened carrot to his lips, oblivious to newly re-arranged table top.

"Stop it Vegeta! He is fine. I want to feed him." Her voice dropped lower, "he takes after you more and more every day you know."

Trunks, bored with his parents conversation filled his small hand with a fistful of gravy and drug it dripping towards his mouth. Amused with the warmth he pull the bowl closer until something stopped its fall over the edge. The child scowled a matching frown at his father when his fun was ruined.

Vegeta pulled the bowl back across the table, having stood in the process, it took a moment for him to remove the napkin from his lap. Around the table he came, plucking the boy out of his mother's lap and quickly sat him in the tall chair he was supposed to use. He snatched a small dish from the cupboards, astonishing Bulma that he even knew the location of such things.

The porcelain dish was filled with meat he shredded, then he added the much wanted gravy and a few tomatoes before setting the odd concoction down in front of the boy. Trunks pounced on the dish pushing handfuls of the mixture towards his mouth.

Bulma shot the olderr man a strange look, while Vegeta was as active as a parent as she'd ever hoped, he rarely intervened in the boy's day to day care. It was always training that most concerned him now that he'd started the process.

"The dish-" She started, but his angry glare made her close her mouth mid-sentence.

Exhaling through his nose Vegeta sat back down to finish his own interrupted meal, this time avoiding the gravy. The boy was making slurping noises, happily sucking on a sauce covered tomato.

"He could choke." She whined.

"He is saiyan. Leave him be." He huffed and again tried to put a forkful of food into his own mouth.

"But he's only a child." She argued back. When the first warm splash of gravy landed down the v-neck of Bulma's t-shirt she shifted her attention from the argument immediately. Leaving her own meal barely touched she stood to clean herself and the gravy-throwing culprit off with a cloth. The child fussed and whined, pushing his mother's hands away as she interrupted him. After the third high pitched shriek rattled Vegeta's eardrums he stalked around the table, tossed the cloth, and pushed her back into her chair and slid her and her meal far from the boy.

"Eat!" He pointed at her plate before turning to give her his back.

Standing tall over the brat he glared down at him, "enough." Came the growl out of his mouth. His son just stared up at him silently, one hand frozen buried in the remainder of his meal. On days like today the daily monotony of Earth life grated his nerves, exasterbating the frustration he felt from interacting with the woman and child. The increasing pumps of his heart and the ache in the base of his neck made him crave the silent crushing pressure of the Gravity Room, solace and reprieve from the daily annoyances of Earth life. Today was a struggle to remember why he'd stayed, the child annoyed him, the woman frustrated him, and it seemed there was to be no peace from the idiocy that plagued the planet. Suddenly disgusted with the situation, he gave one final look to the boy and swept out of the room.

Meditation only fed the irrational anger that begun brewing at the table. He stood from the tiled Gravity Room floor and ran his hands over his face. He paced around the oval room, and past the control panel now on an exterior wall. The idea to turn the machine on had crossed his mind, but something halted his finger from depressing the start button, it nagged at him in the back of his mind until he rammed him palm down to start the generator. His anger worked against him until his body burned with lactic acid and marinated in sweat.

It pissed him off to know that she was still awake so late in the evening. He wanted the solitude and the familiarity of a hot shower in the upstairs bathroom. The numbing weight of downwards pressing gravity would be replaced by the hot pelt of flowing water and it would be exquisite. As he entered he refused to spare the woman a glance, even if his highly attuned peripheral vision picked up her semi-reclined form on the bed scribbling in a notebook.

After the pleasurable experience of languishing in the hot tiled room he came out with damp hair and droplets on his skin. The bed had fresh sheets, and the coverlet had also changed. As he sat on the edge of the mattress he used the towel around his neck one last time to wipe away the straggling droplets on his shoulders and back. He was surprised by the touch on his shoulder, and the other on his ribs both pulling him backwards until he complied with an internal sigh. It would be easier to just wait this out, then it would be to fight it.

She pressed her warm inner thighs around his outer ones and her arms snaked around his torso until he could feel the cool fabric between his back and her breasts touch his skin, a hug. She said absolutely nothing but continued to slide herself against his skin. He couldn't remember how, but she'd convinced him to lay down, face pressed on one side into a pillow. Her hands smoothed over his skin, up and down his spine, then in circles, like she did with the boy, it was nice. The pressure increased and her fingers pressed and worked at his neck and shouldertops. He didn't remember much after the methodical rubbing started, it dazed him, and alleviated the ache he'd be unaware of in his upper back. As time passed the tension seemed to release until everything felt heavy, warm, and comfortable. Her hands gave him a few more soft squeezes before they leave him and he registers the click of the reading lamp turning off.

In dappled morning light he doesn't want to open his eyes, he wishes to remain in this state of relaxing limbo, and perhaps even attempt to return to sleep. He stretches his arms out, palm coming to rest on the soft mound of a breast, nipple fitting in the space between his fingers. Automatically he gave it a light squeeze, enjoying the feeling of the pebbling flesh beneath his touch. Either he woke the woman, or she was already awake because she rolled onto her stomach, elbows supporting her torso. From his pillow with half-lidded eyes he observes her behind dark lashes. Her pink lips were parted ever so slightly as she stretched under the sheets, highlighting the heart shape of her rear and the arch in her back. Wordlessly he turned on his side to observe her, tugging back the sheets discreetly to expose the attractive lines of her naked body.

When she moved to climb out of the warm bed he snatched her back, arms around her middle, nose in the nape of her neck as he held her back to his chest. She tensed briefly before relaxing and smiling at warm puffs of his breath. The contracting of the muscles under his forearms pulled his stomach to clench in sync; the reaction always came whenever she tensed at his touch, and it vanished as quickly with a euphoric release when she did not flinch at his touch. He gave in to the comfort of the moment and inhaled, then exhaled until nothing but the amalgam of her filled his senses. There was a permanency in the moment, and a part of him sampled and saved it, while another whispered to him that he'd always been destined for this.


End file.
